A         THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  PRINCIPLES  OF 
AESTHETICS 


BY 
DEWITT  H.  PARKER 

ASSISTANT  PROFESSOR  OF  PHILOSOPHY 

IN  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

MICHIGAN 


SILVER,  BURDETT  AND  COMPANY 

BOSTON          NEW  YORK          CHICAGO          SAN  FRANCISCO 


COPTBIGHT,    1920, 

BY  SILVER,  BURDETT  A  COMPANY. 


PREFACE 

THIS  book  has  grown  out  of  lectures  to  students  at 
the  University  of  Michigan  and  embodies  my  effort 
to  express  to  them  the  nature  and  meaning  of  art.  In 
writing  it,  I  have  sought  to  maintain  scientific  accuracy, 
yet  at  the  same  time  to  preserve  freedom  of  style  and 
something  of  the  inspiration  of  the  subject.  While 
intended  primarily  for  students,  the  book  will  appeal 
generally,  I  hope,  to  people  who  are  interested  in  the 
intelligent  appreciation  of  art. 

My  obligations  are  extensive,  —  most  directly  to 
those  whom  I  have  cited  in  foot-notes  to  the  text, 
but  also  to  others  whose  influence  is  too  indirect  or  per- 
vasive to  make  citation  profitable,  or  too  obvious  to 
make  it  necessary.  For  the  broader  philosophy  of 
art,  my  debt  is  heaviest,  I  believe,  to  the  artists  and 
philosophers  during  the  period  from  Herder  to  Hegel, 
who  gave  to  the  study  its  greatest  development,  and, 
among  contemporaries,  to  Croce  and  Lipps.  In 
addition,  I  have  drawn  freely  upon  the  more  special 
investigations  of  recent  times,  but  with  the  caution 
desirable  in  view  of  the  very  tentative  character  of  some 
of  the  results.  To  Mrs.  Robert  M.  Wenley  I  wish  to 
express  my  thanks  for  her  very  careful  and  helpful 
reading  of  the  page  proof. 

The  appended  bibliography  is,  of  course,  not  intended 
to  be  in  any  sense  adequate,  but  is  offered  merely  as  a 
guide  to  further  reading ;  a  complete  bibliography  would 

itself  demand  almost  a  volume. 

iii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CHAPTER         I.     Introduction :  Purpose  and  Method     .         .         1 

CHAPTEB       H.    The  Definition  of  Art 16 

CHAPTER     III.     The  Intrinsic  Value  of  Art  ....       31 

CHAPTER      IV.     The  Analysis  of  the  .Esthetic  Experience : 

The  Elements  of  the  Experience       .         .       53 

CHAPTER       V.     The  Analysis  of  the  .Esthetic  Experience: 

The  Structure  of  the  Experience       .         .       80 

CHAPTER  VI.  The  Problem  of  Evil  in  .Esthetics,  and  Its 
Solution  through  the  Tragic,  Pathetic, 
and  Comic  ......  100 

CHAPTER    VTL  The  Standard  of  Taste         ....     126 

CHAPTER  VTH.  The  .Esthetics  of  Music       .        .        .        .153 

CHAPTER     IX.  The  .Esthetics  of  Poetry      .  .        .188 

CHAPTER       X.  Prose  Literature  .         ...        .        .    228 

CHAPTER  XI.  The  Dominion  of  Art  over  Nature :  Paint- 
ing .  251 

CHAPTER  XH.  The  Dominion  of  Art  over  Nature :  Sculp- 
ture .  .  .  .  .  .  .282 

CHAPTER  XIH.  Beauty  in  the  Industrial  Arts :  Architec- 
ture .  .  .  .  .  .  .298 

CHAPTER  XIV.  The  Function  of  Art :  Art  and  Morality  .  332 
CHAPTER  XV.  The  Function  of  Art :  Art  and  Religion  .  349 
BIBLIOGRAPHY  .  .  .  367 


CHAPTER  I 

INTRODUCTION:  PURPOSE  AND  METHOD 

ALTHOUGH  some  feeling  for  beauty  is  perhaps  uni- 
versal among  men,  the  same  cannot  be  said  of  the 
understanding  of  beauty.  The  average  man,  who  may 
exercise  considerable  taste  in  personal  adornment,  in 
the  decoration  of  the  home,  or  in  the  choice  of  poetry 
and  painting,  is  at  a  loss  when  called  upon  to  tell  what 
art  is  or  to  explain  why  he  calls  one  thing  "beautiful" 
and  another  "ugly."  Even  the  artist  and  the  con- 
noisseur, skilled  to  produce  or  accurate  in  judgment, 
are  often  wanting  in  clear  and  consistent  ideas  about 
their  own  works  or  appreciations.  Here,  as  elsewhere, 
we  meet  the  contrast  between  feeling  and  doing,  on  the 
one  hand,  and  knowing,  on  the  other.  Just  as  practical 
men  are  frequently  unable  to  describe  or  justify  their 
most  successful  methods  or  undertakings,  just  as  many 
people  who  astonish  us  with  their  fineness  and  freedom 
in  the  art  of  living  are  strangely  wanting  in  clear 
thoughts  about  themselves  and  the  life  which  they 
lead  so  admirably,  so  in  the  world  of  beauty,  the  men 
who  do  and  appreciate  are  not  always  the  ones  who 
understand. 

l 


2  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

Very  often,  moreover,  the  artist  and  the  art  lover 
justify  their  inability  to  understand  beauty  on  the 
ground  that  beauty  is  too  subtle  a  thing  for  thought. 
How,  they  say,  can  one  hope  to  distill  into  clear  and 
stable  ideas  such  a  vaporous  and  fleeting  matter  as 
aesthetic  feeling?  Such  men  are  not  only  unable  to 
think  about  beauty,  but  skeptical  as  to  the  possibility  of 
doing  so, — contented  mystics,  deeply  feeling,  but  dumb. 

However,  there  have  always  been  artists  and  con- 
noisseurs who  have  striven  to  reflect  upon  their  appre- 
ciations and  acts,  unhappy  until  they  have  understood 
and  justified  what  they  were  doing;  and  one  meets 
with  numerous  art-loving  people  whose  intellectual 
curiosity  is  rather  quickened  than  put  to  sleep  by  just 
that  element  of  elusiveness  in  beauty  upon  which  the 
mystics  dwell.  Long  acquaintance  with  any  class  of 
objects  leads  naturally  to  the  formation  of  some  defini- 
tion or  general  idea  of  them,  and  the  repeated  perform- 
ance of  the  same  type  of  act  impels  to  the  search  for  a 
principle  that  can  be  communicated  to  other  people  in 
justification  of  what  one  is  doing  and  in  defense  of  the 
value  which  one  attaches  to  it.  Thoughtful  people 
cannot  long  avoid  trying  to  formulate  the  relation  of 
their  interest  in  beauty,  which  absorbs  so  much  energy 
and  devotion,  to  other  human  interests,  to  fix  its  place 
in  the  scheme  of  life.  It  would  be  surprising,  therefore, 
if  there  had  been  no  Shelleys  or  Sidneys  to  define  the 
relation  between  poetry  and  science,  or  Tolstoys  to 
speculate  on  the  nature  of  all  art;  and  we  should 
wonder  if  we  did  not  everywhere  hear  intelligent  people 
discussing  the  relation  of  utility  and  goodness  to  beauty, 
or  asking  what  makes  a  poem  or  a  picture  great. 


Introduction :  Purpose  and  Method  3 

Now  the  science  of  aesthetics  is  an  attempt  to  do  in  a 
systematic  way  what  thoughtful  art  lovers  have  thus 
always  been  doing  haphazardly.  It  is  an  effort  to 
obtain  a  clear  general  idea  of  beautiful  objects,  our 
judgments  upon  them,  and  the  motives  underlying 
the  acts  which  create  them,  —  to  raise  the  aesthetic 
life,  otherwise  a  matter  of  instinct  and  feeling,  to  the 
level  of  intelligence,  of  understanding.  To  understand 
art  means  to  find  an  idea  or  definition  which  applies  to 
it  and  to  no  other  activity,  and  at  the  same  time  to 
determine  its  relation  to  other  elements  of  human 
nature ;  and  our  understanding  will  be  complete  if  our 
idea  includes  all  the  distinguishing  characteristics  of 
art,  not  simply  enumerated,  but  exhibited  in  their 
achieved  relations. 

How  shall  we  proceed  in  seeking  such  an  idea  of  art  ? 
We  must  follow  a  twofold  method :  first,  the  ordinary 
scientific  method  of  observation,  analysis,  and  experi- 
ment ;  and  second,  another  and  very  different  method, 
which  people  of  the  present  day  often  profess  to  avoid, 
but  which  is  equally  necessary,  as  I  shall  try  to  show, 
and  actually  employed  by  those  who  reject  it.  In 
following  the  first  method  we  treat  beautiful  things  as 
objects  given  to  us  for  study,  much  as  plants  and  ani- 
mals are  given  to  the  biologist.  Just  as  the  biologist 
watches  the  behavior  of  his  specimens,  analyzes  them 
into  their  various  parts  and  functions,  and  controls  his 
studies  through  carefully  devised  experiments,  arriving 
at  last  at  a  clear  notion  of  what  a  plant  or  an  animal  is 
—  at  a  definition  of  life ;  so  the  student  of  aesthetics 
observes  works  of  art  and  other  well-recognized  beauti- 
ful things,  analyzes  their  elements  and  the  forms  of 


4  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

connection  of  these,  arranges  experiments  to  facilitate 
and  guard  his  observations  from  error  and,  as  a  result, 
reaches  the  general  idea  for  which  he  is  looking,  —  the 
idea  of  beauty. 

A  vast  material  presents  itself  for  study  of  this  kind  : 
the  artistic  attempts  of  children  and  primitive  men; 
the  well-developed  art  of  civilized  nations,  past  and 
present,  as  creative  process  and  as  completed  work; 
and  finally,  the  everyday  aesthetic  appreciations  of 
nature  and  human  life,  both  by  ourselves  and  by  the 
people  whom  we  seek  out  for  study.  Each  kind  of  ma- 
terial has  its  special  value.  The  first  has  the  advan- 
tage of  the  perspicuity  which  comes  from  simplicity, 
similar  for  our  purposes  to  the  value  of  the  rudimen- 
tary forms  of  life  for  the  biologist.  But  this  advantage 
of  early  art  may  be  overestimated ;  for  the  nature  of 
beauty  is  better  revealed  in  its  maturer  manifestations, 
even  as  the  purposes  of  an  individual  are  more  fully, 
if  not  more  clearly,  embodied  in  maturity  than  in 
youth  or  childhood. 

Yet  a  purely  objective  method  will  not  suffice  to 
give  us  an  adequate  idea  of  beauty.  For  beautiful 
things  are  created  by  men,  not  passively  discovered, 
and  are  made,  like  other  things  which  men  make,  in 
order  to  realize  a  purpose.  Just  as  a  saw  is  a  good 
saw  only  when  it  fulfills  the  purpose  of  cutting  wood, 
so  works  of  art  are  beautiful  only  because  they  embody 
a  certain  purpose.  The  beautiful  things  which  we 
study  by  the  objective  method  are  selected  by  us 
from  among  countless  other  objects  and  called  beautiful 
because  they  have  a  value  for  us,  without  a  feeling  for 
which  we  should  not  know  them  to  be  beautiful  at 


Introduction :    Purpose  and  Method         5 

all.  They  are  not,  like  sun  and  moon,  independent  of 
mind  and  will  and  capable  of  being  understood  in 
complete  isolation  from  man.  No  world  of  beauty 
exists  apart  from  a  purpose  that  finds  realization  there. 
We  are,  to  be  sure,  not  always  aware  of  the  existence 
of  this  purpose  when  we  enjoy  a  picture  or  a  poem  or  a 
bit  of  landscape ;  yet  it  is  present  none  the  less.  The 
child  is  equally  unaware  of  the  purpose  of  the  food  which 
pleases  him,  yet  the  purpose  is  the  ground  of  his 
pleasure;  and  we  can  understand  his  hunger  only 
through  a  knowledge  of  it. 

The  dependence  of  beauty  upon  a  relation  to  purpose 
is  clear  from  the  fact  that  in  our  feelings  and  judgments 
about  art  we  not  only  change  and  disagree,  but  correct 
ourselves  and  each  other.  The  history  of  taste,  both 
in  the  individual  and  the  race,  is  not  a  mere  process, 
but  a  progress,  an  evolution.  "We  were  wrong  in 
calling  that  poem  beautiful,"  we  say;  "you  are  mis- 
taken in  thinking  that  picture  a  good  one";  "the 
eighteenth  century  held  a  false  view  of  the  nature  of 
poetry";  "the  English  Pre-Raphaelites  confused  the 
functions  of  poetry  and  painting";  "to-day  we  under- 
stand what  the  truly  pictorial  is  better  than  Giotto 
did  " ;  and  so  on.  Now  nothing  can  be  of  worth  to  us, 
one  thing  cannot  be  better  than  another,  nor  can  we  be 
mistaken  as  to  its  value  except  with  reference  to  some 
purpose  which  it  fulfills  or  does  not  fulfill.  There  is 
no  growth  or  evolution  apart  from  a  purpose  in  terms 
of  which  we  can  read  the  direction  of  change  as  forward 
rather  than  backward. 

This  purpose  cannot  be  understood  by  the  observation 
and  analysis,  no  matter  how  careful,  of  beautiful  things; 


6  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

for  it  exists  in  the  mind  primarily  and  only  through 
mind  becomes  embodied  in  things;  and  it  cannot  be 
understood  by  a  mere  inductive  study  of  aesthetic 
experiences  —  the  mind  plus  the  object  —  just  as 
they  come;  because,  as  we  have  just  stated,  they  are 
changeful  and  subject  to  correction,  therefore  uncertain 
and  often  misleading.  The  aesthetic  impulse  may  falter 
and  go  astray  like  any  other  impulse ;  a  description  of  it 
in  this  condition  would  lead  to  a  very  false  conception. 
No,  we  must  employ  a  different  method  of  investi- 
gation —  the  Socratic  method  of  self -scrutiny,  the 
conscious  attempt  to  become  clear  and  consistent 
about  our  own  purposes,  the  probing  and  straightening 
of  our  aesthetic  consciences.  Instead  of  accepting  our 
immediate  feelings  and  judgments,  we  should  become 
critical  towards  them  and  ask  ourselves,  What  do  we 
really  seek  in  art  and  in  life  which,  when  found,  we 
call  beautiful?  Of  course,  in  order  to  answer  this 
question  we  cannot  rely  on  an  examination  of  our  own 
preferences  in  isolation  from  those  of  our  fellow-men. 
Here,  as  everywhere,  our  purposes  are  an  outgrowth 
of  the  inherited  past  and  are  developed  in  imitation  of, 
or  in  rivalry  with,  those  of  other  men.  The  problem 
is  one  of  interpreting  the  meaning  of  art  in  the  system 
of  culture  of  which  our  own  minds  are  a  part.  Never- 
theless, the  personal  problem  remains.  ./Esthetic  value 
is  emphatically  personal ;  it  must  be  felt  as  one's  own. 
If  I  accept  the  standards  of  my  race  and  age,  I  do  so 
because  I  find  them  to  be  an  expression  of  my  own 
aesthetic  will.  In  the  end,  my  own  will  to  beauty  must 
be  cleared  up;  its  darkly  functioning  goals  must  be 
brought  to  light. 


Introduction  :   Purpose  and  Method        7 

Now,  unless  we  have  thought  much  about  the  matter 
or  are  gifted  with  unusual  native  taste,  we  shall  find 
that  our  aesthetic  intentions  are  confused,  contradictory, 
and  entangled  with  other  purposes.  To  become  aware 
of  this  is  the  first  step  towards  enlightenment.  We  must 
try  to  distinguish  what  we  want  of  art  from  what  we 
want  of  other  things,  such  as  science  or  morality;  for 
something  unique  we  must  desire  from  anything  of 
permanent  value  in  our  life.  In  the  next  place  we 
should  come  to  see  that  we  cannot  want  incompatible 
things ;  that,  for  example,  we  cannot  want  art  to  hold 
the  mirror  up  to  life  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  represent 
life  as  conforming  to  our  private  prejudices;  or  want 
a  picture  to  have  expressive  and  harmonious  colors  and 
look  exactly  like  a  real  landscape ;  or  long  for  a  poetry 
that  would  be  music  or  a  sculpture  that  would  be 
pictorial.  Finally,  we  must  make  sure  that  our  inter- 
pretation of  the  aesthetic  purpose  is  representative  of 
the  actual  fullness  and  manysidedness  of  it ;  we  should 
observe,  for  example,  that  sensuous  pleasure  is  not 
all  that  we  seek  from  art ;  that  truth  of  some  kind  we 
seek  besides;  and  yet  that  in  some  sort  of  union  we 
want  both. 

This  clearing  up  can  be  accomplished  only  in  closest 
touch  with  the  actual  experience  of  beauty;  it  must 
be  performed  upon  our  working  preferences  and  judg- 
ments. It  must  be  an  interpretation  of  the  actual 
history  of  art.  There  is  no  a  priori  method  of  establish- 
ing aesthetic  standards.  Just  as  no  one  can  discover 
his  life  purpose  apart  from  the  process  of  living,  or  the 
purpose  of  another  except  through  sympathy;  so  no 
one  can  know  the  meaning  of  art  except  through  creat- 


8  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

ing  and  enjoying  and  entering  into  the  aesthetic  life 
of  other  artists  and  art  lovers. 

This  so-called  normative  —  perhaps  better,  critical  — 
moment  in  aesthetics  introduces  an  inevitable  personal 
element  into  every  discussion  of  the  subject.  Even 
as  every  artist  seeks  to  convince  his  public  that  what 
he  offers  is  beautiful,  so  every  philosopher  of  art  under- 
takes to  persuade  of  the  validity  of  his  own  preferences. 
I  would  not  make  any  secret  of  this  with  regard  to  the 
following  pages  of  this  book.  Yet  this  intrusion  of 
personality  need  not  be  harmful,  but  may,  on  the  con- 
trary, be  valuable.  It  cannot  be  harmful  if  the  writer 
proceeds  undogmatically,  making  constant  appeals  to 
the  judgment  of  his  readers  and  claiming  no  authority 
for  his  statements  except  in  so  far  as  they  find  favor 
there.  Influence  rather  than  authority  is  what  he 
should  seek.  In  presenting  his  views,  as  he  must,  he 
should  strive  to  stimulate  the  reader  to  make  a  clear 
and  consistent  formulation  of  his  own  preferences  rather 
than  to  impose  upon  him  standards  ready  made. 
And  the  good  of  the  personal  element  comes  from  the 
power  which  one  strong  preference  or  conviction  has  of 
calling  forth  another,  and  compelling  it  to  the  discovery 
and  defense  of  its  grounds. 

In  so  far  as  aesthetics  is  studied  by  the  objective 
method  it  is  a  branch  of  psychology.  ^Esthetic  facts 
are  mental  facts.  A  work  of  art,  no  matter  how 
material  it  may  at  first  seem  to  be,  exists  only  as  per- 
ceived and  enjoyed.  The  marble  statue  is  beautiful 
only  when  it  enters  into  and  becomes  alive  in  the 
experience  of  the  beholder.  Keys  and  strings  and 
vibrations  of  the  air  are  but  stimuli  for  the  auditory 


Introduction :   Purpose  and  Method        9 

experience  which  is  the  real  nocturne  or  etude.  Ether 
vibrations  and  the  retina  upon  which  they  impinge  are 
nothing  more  than  instruments  for  the  production  of 
the  colors  which,  together  with  the  interpretation  of 
them  in  terms  of  ideas  and  feelings,  constitute  the  real 
picture  which  we  appreciate  and  judge.  The  physical 
stimuli  and  the  physiological  reactions  evoked  by  them 
are  important  for  our  purpose  only  so  far  as  they  help 
us  to  understand  the  inner  experiences  with  which 
they  are  correlated.  A  large  part  of  our  work,  there- 
fore, will  consist  in  the  psychological  analysis  of  the 
experience  of  art  and  the  motives  underlying  its  pro- 
duction. We  shall  have  to  distinguish  the  elements  of 
mind  that  enter  into  it,  show  their  interrelations,  and 
differentiate  the  total  experience  from  other  types  of 
experience.  Since,  moreover,  art  is  a  social  phenom- 
enon, we  shall  have  to  draw  upon  our  knowledge  of 
social  psychology  to  illumine  our  analysis  of  the 
individual's  experience.  Art  is  a  historical,  even  a 
technical,  development ;  hence  the  personal  enjoyment 
of  beauty  itself  is  conditioned  by  factors  that  spring 
from  the  traditions  of  groups  of  artists  and  art  lovers. 
No  one  can  understand  his  pleasure  in  beauty  apart 
from  the  pleasure  of  others.  Ovw^  f/j 

In  so  far,  on  the  other  hand,  as  aesthetics  is  an  attempt 
to  define  the  purpose  of  art  and  so  to  formulate  the         »   \JwMr 
standards   presupposed   in   judgments   of  taste,   it   is /jky- 
closely  related  to  criticism.     The  relation  is  essentially 
that  between  theory  and  the  application  of  theory. 
It  is  the  office  of  the  critic  to  deepen  and  diffuse  the 
appreciation    of   particular    works    of    art.     For    this 
purpose  he  must  possess  standards;  but  he  need  not 


10  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

be,  and  in  fact  often  is  not,  aware  of  them.  A  fine 
taste  may  serve  his  ends.  Not  infrequently,  however, 
the  critic  endeavors  to  make  clear  to  himself  and  his 
readers  the  principles  he  is  employing.  Now,  on  its 
normative  side,  aesthetics  is  ideally  the  complete 
rationale  of  criticism,  the  systematic  achievement,  for 
its  own  sake,  of  what  the  thoughtful  critic  attempts 
with  less  exactness  and  for  the  direct  purpose  of  appre- 
ciation. It  is  beyond  the  province  of  aesthetics  to 
criticize  any  particular  work  of  art,  except  by  way  of 
illustration.  The  importance  of  illustration  for  the 
sake  of  explaining  and  proving  general  principles  is, 
however,  fundamental ;  for,  as  we  have  seen,  a  valuable 
aesthetic  theory  is  impossible  unless  developed  out  of 
the  primary  aesthetic  life  of  enjoyment  and  estimation, 
a  life  of  contact  with  individual  beautiful  things.  No 
amount  of  psychological  skill  in  analysis  or  philosoph- 
ical aptitude  for  definition  can  compensate  for  want 
of  a  real  love  of  beauty,  —  of  the  possession  of  some- 
thing of  the  artistic  temperament.  People  who  do 
not  love  art,  yet  study  it  from  the  outside,  may  con- 
tribute to  our  knowledge  of  it  through  isolated  bits  of 
analysis,  but  their  interpretations  of  its  more  funda- 
mental nature  are  always  superficial.  Hence,  just  as 
the  wise  critic  will  not  neglect  aesthetics,  so  the  philos- 
opher of  art  should  be  something  of  a  critic.  Yet  the 
division  of  labor  is  clear  enough.  The  critic  devotes 
himself  to  the  appreciation  of  some  special  contem- 
porary or  historical  field  of  art  —  Shakespearean 
drama,  Renaissance  sculpture,  Italian  painting,  for 
example ;  while  the  philosopher  of  art  looks  for  general 
principles,  and  gives  attention  to  individual  works  of  art 


Introduction  :   Purpose  and  Method       11 

and  historical  movements  only  for  the  purpose  of 
discovering  and  illustrating  them.  And,  since  the 
philosopher  of  art  seeks  a  universal  idea  of  art  rather 
than  an  understanding  of  this  or  that  particular  work 
of  art,  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  a  few  examples, 
through  which  this  idea  can  be  revealed  to  the  loving 
eye,  is  of  more  importance  than  a  wide  but  superficial 
aesthetic  culture. 

In  our  discussion  thus  far,  we  have  been  assuming  the 
possibility  of  aesthetic  theory.  But  what  shall  we  say 
in  answer  to  the  mystic  who  tells  us  that  beauty  is 
indefinable?  First  of  all,  I  think,  we  should  remind 
him  that  his  own  thesis  can  be  proved  or  refuted  only 
through  an  attempt  at  a  scientific  investigation  of 
beauty.  Every  attempt  to  master  our  experience 
through  thought  is  an  adventure;  but  the  futility  of 
adventures  can  be  shown  only  by  courageously  entering 
into  them.  And,  although  the  failure  of  previous 
efforts  may  lessen  the  probabilities  of  success  in  a  new 
enterprise,  it  cannot  prove  that  success  is  absolutely 
impossible.  Through  greater  persistence  and  better 
methods  the  new  may  succeed  where  the  old  have 
failed.  Moreover,  although  we  are  ready  to  grant 
that  the  pathway  to  our  goal  is  full  of  pitfalls,  marked 
by  the  wreckage  of  old  theories,  yet  we  claim  that  the 
skeptic  or  the  mystic  can  know  of  their  existence  only 
by  traveling  over  the  pathway  himself ;  for  in  the  world 
of  the  inner  life  nothing  can  be  known  by  hearsay.  If, 
then,  he  would  really  know  that  the  road  to  theoretical 
insight  into  beauty  is  impassable,  let  him  travel  with 
us  and  see ;  or,  if  not  with  us,  alone  by  himself  or  with 
some  one  wiser  than  we  as  guide;  let  him  compare 


12  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

fairly  and  sympathetically  the  results  of  theoretical 
analysis  and  construction  with  the  data  of  his  first- 
hand experience  and  observe  whether  the  one  is  or  is 
not  adequate  to  the  other. 

Again,  the  cleft  between  thought  and  feeling,  even 
subtle  and  fleeting  aesthetic  feeling,  is  not  so  great  as 
the  mystics  suppose.  For,  after  all,  there  is  a  recogniz- 
able identity  and  permanence  even  in  these  feelings; 
we  should  never  call  them  by  a  common  name  or  greet 
them  as  the  same  despite  their  shiftings  from  moment 
to  moment  if  this  were  not  true.  Although  whatever 
is  unique  in  each  individual  experience  of  beauty,  its 
distinctive  flavor  or  nuance,  cannot  be  adequately 
rendered  in  thought,  but  can  only  be  felt ;  yet  whatever 
each  new  experience  has  in  common  with  the  old, 
whatever  is  universal  in  all  aesthetic  experiences,  can 
be  formulated.  The  relations  of  beauty,  too,  its  place 
in  the  whole  of  life,  can  be  discovered  by  thought  alone ; 
for  only  by  thought  can  we  hold  on  to  the  various  things 
whose  relations  we  are  seeking  to  establish;  without 
thought  our  experience  falls  asunder  into  separate  bits 
and  never  attains  to  unity.  Finally,  the  mystics  forget 
that  the  life  of  thought  and  the  life  of  feeling  have  a 
common  root ;  they  are  both  parts  of  the  one  life  of  the 
mind  and  so  cannot  be  foreign  to  each  other. 

The  motive  impelling  to  any  kind  of  undertaking  is 
usually  complex,  and  that  which  leads  to  the  develop- 
ment of  aesthetic  theory  is  no  exception  to  the  general 
rule.  A  disinterested  love  of  understanding  has  cer- 
tainly played  a  part.  Every  region  of  experience  in- 
vites to  the  play  of  intelligence  upon  it;  the  lover 
of  knowledge,  as  Plato  says,  loves  the  whole  of  his 


Introduction :   Purpose  and  Method       13 

object.  Yet  even  intelligence,  insatiable  and  im- 
partial as  it  is,  has  its  predilections.  The  desire  to 
understand  a  particular  type  of  thing  has  its  roots  in  an 
initial  love  of  it.  As  the  born  botanist  is  the  man  who 
finds  joy  in  contact  with  tree  and  moss  and  mushroom, 
so  the  student  of  aesthetics  is  commonly  a  lover  of 
beauty.  And,  although  the  interest  which  he  takes 
in  aesthetic  theory  is  largely  just  the  pleasure  in  possess- 
ing clear  ideas,  one  may  question  whether  he  would 
pursue  it  with  such  ardor  except  for  the  continual 
lover's  touch  with  picture  and  statue  and  poem  which 
it  demands.  For  the  intelligent  lover  of  beauty, 
aesthetic  theory  requires  no  justification ;  it  is  as  neces- 
sary and  pleasurable  for  him  to  understand  art  as  it 
is  compulsive  for  him  to  seek  out  beautiful  things  to 
enjoy.  To  love  without  understanding  is,  to  the 
thoughtful  lover,  an  infidelity  to  his  object.  That  the 
interest  in  aesthetic  theory  is  partly  rooted  in  feeling  is 
shown  from  the  fact  that,  when  developed  by  artists, 
it  takes  the  form  of  a  defense  of  the  type  of  art  which 
they  are  producing.  The  aesthetic  theory  of  the 
German  Romanticists  is  an  illustration  of  this ;  Hebbel 
and  Wagner  are  other  striking  examples.  These  men 
could  not  rest  until  they  had  put  into  communicable 
and  persuasive  form  the  aesthetic  values  which  they 
felt  in  creation.  And  we,  too,  who  are  not  artists  but 
only  lovers  of  beauty,  find  in  theory  a  satisfaction  for 
a  similar  need  with  reference  to  our  preferences.1 

More  important  to  the  average  man  is  the  help  which 
aesthetic  theory  may  render  to  appreciation  itself.  If 
to  the  basal  interest  in  beauty  be  added  an  interest  in 

1  Compare  Santayana :  The  Sense  of  Beauty,  p.  11. 


14  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

understanding  beauty,  the  former  is  quickened  and 
fortified  and  the  total  measure  of  enjoyment  increased. 
Even  the  love  of  beauty,  strong  as  it  commonly  is,  may 
well  find  support  through  connection  with  an  equally 
powerful  and  enduring  affection.  The  aesthetic  interest 
is  no  exception  to  the  general  truth  that  each  part  of 
the  mind  gains  in  stability  and  intensity  if  connected 
with  the  others ;  isolated,  it  runs  the  risk  of  gradual 
decay  in  satiety  or  through  the  crowding  out  of  other 
competing  interests,  which  if  joined  with  it,  would  have 
kept  it  alive  instead.  Moreover,  the  understanding  of 
art  may  increase  the  appreciation  of  particular  works 
of  art.  For  the  analysis  and  constant  attention  to  the 
subtler  details  demanded  by  theory  may  bring  to 
notice  aspects  of  a  work  of  art  which  do  not  exist  for 
an  unthinking  appreciation.  As  a  rule,  the  apprecia- 
tions of  the  average  man  are  very  inadequate  to  the 
total  possibilities  offered,  extending  only  to  the  more 
obvious  features.  Often  enough  besides,  through  a 
mere  lack  of  understanding  of  the  purpose  of  art  in 
general  and  of  the  more  special  aims  of  the  particular 
arts,  people  expect  to  find  what  cannot  be  given,  and 
hence  are  prejudiced  against  what  they  might  otherwise 
enjoy.  The  following  pages  will  afford,  I  hope,  abun- 
dant illustrations  of  this  truth. 

Finally,  aesthetic  theory  may  have  a  favorable  influ- 
ence upon  the  creation  of  art.  Not  that  the  student 
of  aesthetics  can  prescribe  to  the  artist  what  he  shall  or 
shall  not  do;  for  the  latter  can  obey,  for  better  or 
worse,  only  the  inner  imperative  of  his  native  genius. 
Yet,  inevitably,  the  man  of  genius  receives  direction 
and  cultivation  from  the  aesthetic  sentiment  of  the  time 


Introduction :   Purpose  and  Method       15 

into  which  he  is  born  and  grown ;  even  when  he  reacts 
against  it,  he  nevertheless  feels  its  influence ;  a  sound 
conception  of  the  nature  and  purpose  of  art  may  save 
him  from  many  mistakes.  The  French  classical 
tradition  in  sculpture  and  painting,  which  is  not  merely 
academic,  having  become  a  part  of  public  taste,  pre- 
vented the  production  of  the  frightful  crudities  which 
passed  for  art  in  Germany  and  England  during  the 
present  and  past  centuries.  By  helping  to  create  a 
freer  and  more  intelligent  atmosphere  for  the  artist 
to  be  born  and  educated  in,  and  finer  demands  upon 
him  when  once  he  has  begun  to  produce  and  is  seeking 
recognition,  the  student  of  aesthetics  may  indirectly 
do  not  a  little  for  him.  And  surely  in  our  own  country, 
where  an  educated  public  taste  does  not  exist  and  the 
fiercest  prejudices  are  rampant,  there  is  abundant 
opportunity  for  service. 


CHAPTER  II 

DEFINITION  OF  ART 

SINCE  it  is  our  purpose  to  develop  an  adequate  idea 
of  art,  it  might  seem  as  if  a  definition  were  rather  our 
goal  than  our  starting  point ;  yet  we  must  identify  the 
field  of  our  investigations  and  mark  it  off  from  other 
regions ;  and  this  we  can  do  only  by  means  of  a  prelim- 
inary definition,  which  the  rest  of  our  study  may  then 
enrich  and  complete. 

We  shall  find  it  fruitful  to  begin  with  the  definition 
recently  revived  by  Croce : l  art  is  expression ;  and 
expression  we  may  describe,  for  our  own  ends,  as  the 
putting  forth  of  purpose,  feeling,  or  thought  into  a 
sensuous  medium,  where  they  can  be  experienced 
again  by  the  one  who  expresses  himself  and  com- 
municated to  others.  Thus,  in  this  sense,  a  lyric 
poem  is  an  expression  —  a  bit  of  a  poet's  intimate 
experience  put  into  words;  epic  and  dramatic  poetry 
are  expressions  —  visions  of  a  larger  life  made  manifest 
in  the  same  medium.  Pictures  and  statues  are  also 
expressions;  for  they  are  embodiments  in  color  and 
space-forms  of  the  artists'  ideas  of  visible  nature  and 
man.  Works  of  architecture  and  the  other  industrial 
arts  are  embodiments  of  purpose  and  the  well-being 
that  comes  from  purpose  fulfilled. 

1  Benedetto  Croce :  Estetica,  translated  into  English  by  Douglas  Ainslie, 
under  title  ^Esthetic,  chap.  i. 

16 


Definition  of  Art  17 

This  definition,  good  so  far  as  it  goes,  is,  however, 
too  inclusive;  for  plainly,  although  every  work  of  art 
is  an  expression,  not  every  expression  is  a  work  of  art. 
Automatic  expressions,  instinctive  overflowings  of 
emotion  into  motor  channels,  like  the  cry  of  pain  or 
the  shout  of  joy,  are  not  aesthetic.  Practical  expressions 
also,  all  such  as  are  only  means  or  instruments  for  the 
realization  of  ulterior  purposes  —  the  command  of  the 
officer,  the  conversation  of  the  market  place,  a  saw  — 
are  not  aesthetic.  Works  of  art  —  the  Ninth  Symphony, 
the  Ode  to  the  West  Wind  —  are  not  of  this  character. 

No  matter  what  further  purposes  artistic  expressions 
may  serve,  they  are  produced  and  valued  for  them- 
selves; we  linger  in  them;  we  neither  merely  execute 
them  mechanically,  as  we  do  automatic  expressions,  nor 
hasten  through  them,  our  minds  fixed  upon  some  future 
end  to  be  gained  by  them,  as  is  the  case  with  practical 
expressions.  Both  for  the  artist  and  the  appreciator, 
they  are  ends  in  themselves.  Compare,  for  example,  a 
love  poem  with  a  declaration  of  love.1  The  poem  is 
esteemed  for  the  rhythmic  emotional  experience  it 
gives  the  writer  or  reader ;  the  declaration,  even  when 
enjoyed  by  the  suitor,  has  its  prime  value  in  its  conse- 
quences, and  the  quicker  it  is  over  and  done  with  and 
its  end  attained  the  better.  The  one,  since  it  has  its 
purpose  within  itself,  is  returned  to  and  repeated ;  the 
other,  being  chiefly  a  means  to  an  end,  would  be 
senseless  if  repeated,  once  the  end  that  called  it  forth 
is  accomplished.  The  value  of  the  love  poem,  although 
written  to  persuade  a  lady,  cannot  be  measured  in 

1  Contrast  Croce's  use  of  the  same  illustration :  Esthetic,  p.  22,  English 
translation, 


18  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

terms  of  its  mere  success ;  for  if  beautiful,  it  remains  of 
worth  after  the  lady  has  yielded,  nay,  even  if  it  fails  to 
win  her.  Any  sort  of  practical  purpose  may  be  one 
motive  in  the  creation  of  a  work  of  art,  but  its  signifi- 
cance is  broader  than  the  success  or  failure  of  that 
motive.  The  Russian  novel  is  still  significant,  even 
now,  after  the  revolution.  As  beautiful,  it  is  of  peren- 
nial worth  and  stands  out  by  itself.  But  practical 
expressions  are  only  transient  links  in  the  endless 
chain  of  means,  disappearing  as  the  wheel  of  effort 
revolves.  Art  is  indeed  expression,  but  free  or  auton- 
omous expression. 

The  freedom  of  aesthetic  expression  is,  however,  only 
an  intensification  of  a  quality  that  may  belong  to  any 
expression.  For,  in  its  native  character,  expression  is 
never  merely  practical;  it  brings  its  own  reward  in 
the  pleasure  of  the  activity  itself.  Ordinarily,  when  a 
man  makes  something  embodying  his  need  or  fancy,  or 
says  something  that  expresses  his  meaning,  he  enjoys 
himself  in  his  doing.  There  is  naturally  a  generous 
superfluity  in  all  human  behavior.  The  economizing 
of  it  to  what  is  necessary  for  self-preservation  and 
dominion  over  the  environment  is  secondary,  not  pri- 
mary, imposed  under  the  duress  of  competition  and 
nature.  Only  when  activities  are  difficult  or  their 
fruits  hard  to  get  are  they  disciplined  for  the  sake  of 
their  results  alone;  then  only  does  their  performance 
become  an  imperative,  and  nature  and  society  impose 
upon  them  the  seriousness  and  constraint  of  necessity 
and  law.  But  whenever  nature  and  the  social  or- 
ganization supply  the  needs  of  man  ungrudgingly  or 
grant  him  a  respite  from  the  urgency  of  business,  the 


Definition  of  Art  19 

spontaneity  of  his  activities  returns.  The  doings  of 
children,  of  the  rich,  and  of  all  men  on  a  holiday  illus- 
trate this.  Compare,  for  example,  the  speech  of  trade, 
where  one  says  the  brief  and  needful  thing  only,  with 
the  talk  of  excursionists,  where  verbal  expression, 
having  no  end  beyond  itself,  develops  at  length  and  at 
leisure;  where  brevity  is  no  virtue  and  abundant 
play  takes  the  place  of  a  narrow  seriousness. 

But  we  have  not  yet  so  limited  the  field  of  expression 
that  it  becomes  equivalent  to  the  aesthetic ;  for  not  even 
all  of  free  expression  is  art.  The  most  important  diver- 
gent type  is  science.  Science  also  is  expression,  —  an 
embodiment  in  words,  diagrams,  mathematical  sym- 
bols, chemical  formulae,  or  other  such  media,  of  thoughts 
meant  to  portray  the  objects  of  human  experience. 
Scientific  expressions  have,  of  course,  a  practical  func- 
tion; concepts  are  "plans  of  action"  or  servants  of 
plans,  the  most  perfect  and  delicate  that  man  possesses. 
Yet  scientific  knowledge  is  an  end  in  itself  as  well  as 
a  utility;  for  the  mere  construction  and  possession  of 
concepts  and  laws  is  itself  a  source  of  joy ;  the  man  of 
science  delights  in  making  appropriate  formulations  of 
nature's  habits  quite  unconcerned  about  their  possible 
uses. 

In  science,  therefore,  there  is  much  free  expression; 
but  beauty  not  yet.  No  abstract  expression  such  as 
Euclid's  Elements,  Newton's  Principia,  or  Peano's 
Formulaire,  no  matter  how  rigorous  and  complete,  is 
a  work  of  art.  We  admire  the  mathematician's 
formula  for  its  simplicity  and  adequacy;  we  take 
delight  in  its  clarity  and  scope,  in  the  ease  with  which 
it  enables  the  mind  to  master  a  thousand  more  special 


20  The  Principles  of  Esthetics 

truths,  but  we  do  not  find  it  beautiful.  Equally 
removed  from  the  sphere  of  the  beautiful  are  repre- 
sentations or  descriptions  of  mere  things,  whether 
inaccurate  or  haphazard,  as  we  make  them  in  daily 
life,  or  accurate  and  careful  as  they  are  elaborated  in 
the  empirical  sciences.  No  matter  how  exact  and 
complete,  the  botanist's  or  zoologist's  descriptions  of 
plant  and  animal  life  are  not  works  of  art.  They  may 
be  satisfactory  as  knowledge,  but  they  are  not  beautiful. 
There  is  an  important  difference  between  a  poet's 
description  of  a  flower  and  a  botanist's,  or  between  an 
artistic  sketch  and  a  photograph,  conferring  beauty  upon 
the  former,  and  withholding  it  from  the  latter. 

The  central  difference  is  this.  The  former  are  de- 
scriptions not  of  things  only,  but  of  the  artist's  reactions 
to  things,  his  mood  or  emotion  in  their  presence.  They 
are  expressions  of  total,  concrete  experiences,  which 
include  the  self  of  the  observer  as  well  as  the  things  he 
observes.  Scientific  descriptions,  on  the  other  hand, 
render  objects  only ;  the  feelings  of  the  observer  toward 
them  are  carefully  excluded.  Science  is  intentionally 
objective,  —  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  artistic 
temperament,  dry  and  cold.  Even  the  realistic  novel 
and  play,  while  seeking  to  present  a  faithful  picture  of 
human  life  and  to  eliminate  all  private  comment  and 
emotion,  cannot  dispense  with  the  elementary  dramatic 
feelings  of  sympathy,  suspense,  and  wonder.  ^Esthetic 
expression  is  always  integral,  embodying  a  total  state 
of  mind,  the  core  of  which  is  some  feeling;  scientific 
expression  is  fragmentary  or  abstract,  limiting  itself 
to  thought.  Art,  no  less  than  science,  may  contain 
truthful  images  of  things  and  abstract  ideas,  but 


Definition  of  Art  21 

never  these  alone;  it  always  includes  their  life,  their 
feeling  tones,  or  values.  Because  philosophy  admits 
this  element  of  personality,  it  is  nearer  to  art  than 
science  is.  Yet  some  men  of  science,  like  James  and 
Huxley,  have  made  literature  out  of  science  because 
they  could  not  help  putting  into  their  writings  some- 
thing of  their  passionate  interest  in  the  things  they 
discovered  and  described. 

The  necessity  in  art  for  the  expression  of  value  is,  I 
think,  the  principal  difference  between  art  and  science, 
rather  than,  as  Croce  *  supposes,  the  limitation  of  art 
to  the  expression  of  the  individual  and  of  science  to  the 
expression  of  the  concept.  For,  on  the  one  hand, 
science  may  express  the  individual;  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  art  may  express  the  concept.  The  geographer, 
for  example,  describes  and  makes  maps  of  particular 
regions  of  the  earth's  surface;  the  astronomer  studies 
the  individual  sun  and  moon.  Poets  like  Dante, 
Lucretius,  Shakespeare,  and  Goethe  express  the  most 
universal  concepts  of  ethics  or  metaphysics.  But 
what  makes  men  poets  rather  than  men  of  science  is 
precisely  that  they  never  limit  themselves  to  the  mere 
clear  statement  of  the  concept,  but  always  express 
its  human  significance  as  well.  A  theory  of  human 
destiny  is  expressed  in  Prosperous  lines  — 

We  are  such  stuff 

As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep ; 

but  with  overtones  of  feeling  at  the  core.  Or  consider 
the  passion  with  which  Lucretius  argues  for  a  naturalis- 

1  Estetica,  quarta  edizione,  p.  27 ;  English  translation,  p.  36. 


22  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

tic  conception  of  the  universe.  And  the  reason  why 
poets  clothe  their  philosophical  expressions  in  concrete 
images  is  not  because  of  any  shame  of  the  concept, 
but  just  in  order  the  more  easily  and  vividly  to  attach 
and  communicate  their  emotion.  Their  general  prefer- 
ence for  the  concrete  has  the  same  motive;  for  there 
are  only  a  few  abstractions  capable  of  arousing  and 
fixing  emotion. 

Even  as  an  element  of  spontaneity  is  native  to  all 
expression,  so  originally  all  expression  is  personal. 
This  is  easily  observable  in  the  child.  His  first  uses 
of  words  as  well  as  of  things  are  touched  with  emotion. 
Every  descriptive  name  conveys  to  him  his  emotional 
reaction  to  the  object;  disinterested  knowledge  does 
not  exist  for  him ;  every  tool,  a  knife  or  a  fork,  means 
to  him  not  only  something  to  be  used,  but  the  whole 
background  of  feelings  which  its  use  involves.  Our 
first  perceptions  of  things  contain  as  much  of  feeling 
and  attitude  as  of  color  and  shape  and  sound  and  odor. 
Pure  science  and  mere  industry  are  abstractions  from 
the  original  integrity  of  perception  and  expression; 
mutilations  of  their  wholeness  forced  upon  the  mind 
through  the  stress  of  living.  To  be  able  to  see  things 
without  feeling  them,  or  to  describe  them  without  being 
moved  by  their  image,  is  a  disciplined  and  derivative 
accomplishment.  Only  as  the  result  of  training  and  of 
haste  do  the  forms  and  colors  of  objects,  once  the  stimuli 
to  a  wondering  and  lingering  attention,  become  mere 
cues  to  their  recognition  and  employment,  or  mere 
incitements  to  a  cold  and  disinterested  analysis  and 
description.  Knowledge  may  therefore  enter  into 
beauty  when,  keeping  its  liberality,  it  participates  in 


Definition  of  Art  23 

an  emotional  experience ;  and  every  other  type  of  ex- 
pression may  become  aesthetic  if,  retaining  its  native 
spontaneity,  it  can  acquire  anew  its  old  power  to  move 
the  heart.  To  be  an  artist  means  to  be,  like  the  child, 
free  and  sensitive  in  envisaging  the  world. 

Under  these  conditions,  nature  as  well  as  art  may  be 
beautiful.  In  themselves,  things  are  never  beautiful. 
This  is  not  apparent  to  common  sense  because  it  fails 
to  think  and  analyze.  But  beauty  may  belong  to  our 
'perceptions  of  things.  For  perception  is  itself  a  kind 
of  expression,  a  process  of  mind  through  which  mean- 
ings are  embodied  in  sensations.  Given  are  only 
sensations,  but  out  of  the  mind  come  ideas  through 
which  they  are  interpreted  as  objects.  When,  for 
example,  I  perceive  my  friend,  it  may  seem  as  if  the 
man  himself  were  a  given  object  which  I  passively  re- 
ceive; but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  all  that  is  given  are 
certain  visual  sensations ;  that  these  are  my  friend,  is 
pure  interpretation  —  I  construct  the  object  in  embody- 
ing this  thought  in  the  color  and  shape  I  see.  The 
elaboration  of  sensation  in  perception  is  usually  so 
rapid  that,  apart  from  reflection,  I  do  not  realize  the 
mental  activity  involved.  But  if  it  turns  out  that  it 
was  some  other  man  that  I  saw,  then  I  realize  at  once 
that  my  perception  was  a  work  of  mind,  an  expression 
of  my  own  thought.  Of  course,  not  all  perceptions 
are  beautiful.  Only  as  felt  to  be  mysterious  or  tender 
or  majestic  is  a  landscape  beautiful ;  and  women  only 
as  possessed  of  the  charm  we  feel  in  their  presence. 
That  is,  perceptions  are  beautiful  only  when  they 
embody  feelings.  The  sea,  clouds  and  hills,  men  and 
women,  as  perceived,  awaken  reactions  which,  instead 


24  The  Principles  of 

of  being  attributed  to  the  mind  from  which  they  pro- 
ceed, are  experienced  as  belonging  to  the  things  evoking 
them,  which  therefore  come  to  embody  them.  And 
this  process  of  emotional  and  objectifying  perception 
has  clearly  no  other  end  than  just  perception  itself. 
We  do  not  gaze  upon  a  landscape  or  a  pretty  child  for 
any  other  purpose  than  to  get  the  perceptual,  emo- 
tional values  that  result.  The  aesthetic  perception  of 
nature  is,  as  Kant  called  it,  disinterested ;  that  is,  auton- 
omous and  free.  The  beauty  of  nature,  therefore,  is 
an  illustration  of  our  definition. 

On  the  same  terms,  life  as  remembered  or  observed 
or  lived,  may  have  the  quality  of  beauty.  In  reverie 
we  turn  our  attention  back  over  events  in  our  own  lives 
that  have  had  for  us  a  rare  emotional  significance; 
these  events  then  come  to  embody  the  wonder,  the 
interest,  the  charm  that  excited  us  to  recollect  them. 
Here  the  activity  of  remembering  is  not  a  mere  habit 
set  going  by  some  train  of  accidental  association;  or 
merely  practical,  arising  for  the  sake  of  solving  some 
present  problem  by  applying  the  lesson  of  the  past  to  it ; 
or  finally,  not  unpleasantly  insistent,  like  the  images 
aroused  by  worry  and  sorrow,  but  spontaneous  and 
self-rewarding,  hence  beautiful.  There  are  also  events 
in  the  lives  of  other  people,  and  people  themselves, 
whose  lives  read  like  a  story,  which,  by  absorbing  our 
pity  or  joy  or  awe,  claim  from  us  a  like  fascinated  regard. 
And  there  are  actions  we  ourselves  perform,  magnificent 
or  humble,  like  sweeping  a  room,  which,  if  we  put 
ourselves  into  them  and  enjoy  them,  have  an  equal 
charm.  And  they  too  have  the  quality  of  beauty. 

Despite  the  community  between  beautiful  nature  and 


Definition  of  Art  25 

art,  the  differences  are  striking.  Suppose,  in  order  to 
fix  our  ideas,  we  compare  one  of  Monet's  pictures  of 
a  lily  pond  with  the  aesthetic  appreciation  of  the  real 
pond.  The  pond  is  undoubtedly  beautiful  every  time 
it  is  seen;  with  its  round  outline,  its  sunlit,  flower- 
covered  surface,  its  background  of  foliage,  it  is  perhaps 
the  source  and  expression  of  an  unfailing  gladness  and 
repose.  Now  the  painting  has  very  much  the  same 
value,  but  with  these  essential  differences.  First,  the 
painting  is  something  deliberately  constructed  and 
composed,  the  artist  himself  controlling  and  composing 
the  colors  and  shapes,  and  hence  their  values  also; 
while  the  natural  beauty  is  an  immediate  reaction 
to  given  stimuli,  each  observer  giving  meaning  to  his 
sensations  without  intention  or  effort.  Like  the  beauty 
of  woman,  it  is  almost  a  matter  of  instinct.  In 
natural  beauty,  there  is,  to  be  sure,  an  element  of  con- 
scious intention,  in  so  far  as  we  may  purposely  select 
our  point  of  view  and  hold  the  object  in  our  attention ; 
hence  this  contrast  with  art,  although  real  and  im- 
portant, is  not  absolute.  Moreover,  beauty  in  per- 
ception and  memory  is  the  basis  of  art;  the  artist, 
while  he  composes,  nevertheless  partly  transcribes 
significant  memories  and  observations.  Yet,  although 
relative,  the  difference  remains;  art  always  consists 
of  works  of  art,  natural  beauty  of  more  immediate 
experiences.  And  from  this  difference  follows  another 
—  the  greater  purity  and  perfection  of  art.  The  control 
which  the  artist  exerts  over  his  material  enables  him 
to  make  it  expressive  all  through;  every  element 
conspires  toward  the  artistic  end;  there  are  no  irrel- 
evant or  recalcitrant  parts,  such  as  exist  in  every 


26  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

perception  of  nature.  Last,  the  beauty  of  the  painting, 
because  created  in  the  beholder  through  a  fixed  and 
permanent  mechanism  constructed  by  the  artist,  is 
communicable  and  abiding,  whereas  the  immediate 
beauty  of  nature  is  incommunicable  and  transient. 
Since  the  aesthetic  perception  of  nature  has  its  starting 
point  in  variable  aspects  that  never  recur,  no  other 
man  could  see  or  feel  the  lily  pond  as  Monet  saw  and 
felt  it.  And,  although  in  memory  we  may  possess  a 
silent  gallery  of  beautiful  images,  into  which  we  may 
enter  privately  as  long  as  we  live,  in  the  end  the  flux 
has  its  way  and  at  death  shatters  this  treasure  house  ir- 
revocably. Hence,  only  if  the  beauty  of  the  lily  pond  is 
transferred  to  a  canvas,  can  it  be  preserved  and  shared. 
The  work  of  art  is  the  tool  of  the  aesthetic  life.  Just 
as  organic  efficiency  is  tied  to  the  nerve  and  muscle  of 
the  workman  and  cannot  be  transferred  to  another,  but 
the  tool,  on  the  other  hand,  is  exchangeable  and  trans- 
missible (I  cannot  lend  or  bequeath  my  arm,  but  I  can 
my  boat) ;  and  just  as  efficiency  is  vastly  increased 
by  the  use  of  tools  (I  can  go  further  with  my  boat  than 
I  can  swim) ;  so,  through  works  of  art,  aesthetic 
capacity  and  experience  are  enhanced  and  become 
common  possessions,  a  part  of  the  spiritual  capital  of 
the  race.  Moreover,  even  as  each  invention  becomes 
the  starting  point  for  new  ones  that  are  better  instru- 
ments for  practical  ends ;  so  each  work  of  art  be- 
comes the  basis  for  new  experiments  through  which 
the  aesthetic  expression  of  life  attains  to  higher  levels. 
Monet's  own  art,  despite  its  great  originality,  was 
dependent  upon  all  the  impressionists,  and  they, 
even  when  they  broke  away  from,  were  indebted  to, 


Definition  of  Art  27 

the  traditions  of  French  painting  established  by  cen- 
turies. Through  art,  the  aesthetic  life,  which  otherwise 
would  be  a  private  affair,  receives  a  social  sanction 
and  assistance. 

That  permanence  and  communication  of  expression 
are  essential  to  a  complete  conception  of  art  can  be 
discerned  by  looking  within  the  artistic  impulse  itself. 
However  much  the  artist  may  affect  indifference  to  the 
public,  he  creates  expecting  to  be  understood.  Mere 
self-expression  does  not  satisfy  him ;  he  needs  in 
addition  appreciation.  Deprived  of  sympathy,  the 
artistic  impulse  withers  and  dies  or  supports  itself 
through  the  hope  of  eventually  finding  it.  The  heroism 
of  the  poet  consists  in  working  on  in  loneliness ;  but 
his  crown  of  glory  is  won  only  when  all  men  are  singing 
his  songs.  And  every  genuine  artist,  as  opposed  to  the 
mere  improviser  or  dilettante,  wishes  his  work  to 
endure.1  Having  put  his  substance  into  it,  he  desires 
its  preservation  as  he  does  his  own.  His  immortality 
through  it  is  his  boast. 

Exegi  monumentum  aere  perennius 
Regalique  situ  pyramidum  altius 

***** 

Non  omnis  moriar. 

Art  is  not  mere  inspiration,  the" transient  expression  of 
private  moods,  but  a  work  of  communication,  meant  to 
endure. 

1  See  Anatole  France :  Le  Lys  Rouge.  "  Moi,  dit  Choulette,  je  pense  si 
peu  a  1'avenir  terrestre  que  j'ai  ecrit  mes  plus  beaux  poemes  sur  les  feuilles 
de  papier  a  cigarettes.  Elles  se  sont  facilement  evanuies,  ne  laissant  a  mes 
vers  qu'une  espece  d'existence  metaphysique."  C'etait  un  air  de  negligence 
qu'il  se  donnait.  En  fait,  il  n'avait  jamais  perdu  une  ligne  de  son  ecriture. 


28  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

There  are  certain  distinguishing  characteristics  of 
aesthetic  expression,  all  of  which  are  in  harmony  with 
the  description  we  have  given  of  it.  In  the  first  place, 
in  art  the  sensuous  medium  of  the  expression  receives  an 
attention  and  possesses  a  significance  not  to  be  found 
in  other  types  of  expression.  Although  every  one 
hears,  no  one  attends  to  the  sound  of  the  voice  in 
ordinary  conversation ;  one  looks  through  it,  as  through 
a  glass,  to  the  thought  or  emotion  behind.  In  our 
routine  perceptions  of  nature,  we  are  not  interested  in 
colors  and  shapes  on  their  own  account,  but  only  in 
order  that  we  may  recognize  the  objects  possessing 
them ;  in  a  scientific  woodcut  also,  they  are  indifferent 
to  us,  except  in  so  far  as  they  impart  correct  informa- 
tion about  the  objects  portrayed.  Outside  of  art, 
sensation  is  a  mere  transparent  means  to  the  end  of 
communication  and  recognition.  Compare  the  poem, 
the  piece  of  music,  the  artistic  drawing  or  painting. 
There  the  words  or  tones  must  be  not  only  heard  but 
listened  to ;  the  colors  and  lines  not  only  seen  but  held 
in  the  eye;  of  themselves,  apart  from  anything  they 
may  further  mean,  they  have  the  power  to  awaken 
feeling  and  pleasure.  And  this  is  no  accident.  For 
the  aesthetic  expression  is  meant  to  possess  worth  in 
itself  and  is  deliberately  fashioned  to  hold  us  to  itself, 
and  this  purpose  will  be  more  certainly  and  effectively 
accomplished  if  the  medium  of  the  expression  has  the 
power  to  move  and  please.  We  enter  the  aesthetic 
expression  through  the  sensuous  medium;  hence  the 
artist  tries  to  charm  us  at  the  start  and  on  the  outside ; 
having  found  favor  there,  he  wins  us  the  more  easily 
to  the  content  lying  within. 


Definition  of  Art  29 

If  the  medium,  moreover,  instead  of  being  a  trans- 
parent embodiment  of  the  artist's  feelings,  can  express 
them  in  some  direct  fashion  as  well,  the  power  of  the 
whole  expression  will  gain.  This  is  exactly  what  the 
sound  of  the  words  of  a  poem  or  the  colors  and  lines 
of  a  painting  or  statue  can  do.  As  mere  sound  and  as 
mere  color  and  line,  they  convey  something  of  the 
feeling  tone  of  the  subject  which,  as  symbols,  they  are 
used  to  represent.  For  example,  the  soft  flowing  lines 
of  Correggio,  quite  apart  from  the  objects  they  rep- 
resent, express  the  voluptuous  happiness  of  his  "Venus 
and  Mars  " ;  the  slow  rhythm  of  the  repeated  word 
sounds  and  the  quality  of  the  vowels  in  the  opening 
lines  of  Tithonus  are  expressive  in  themselves,  apart 
from  their  meaning,  of  the  weariness  in  the  thoughts  of 
the  hero,  and  so  serve  to  reexpress  and  enforce  the 
mood  of  those  thoughts.  When  we  come  to  study  the 
particular  arts,  we  shall  find  this  phenomenon  of  re- 
expression  through  the  medium  everywhere. 

A  second  characteristic  distinguishing  aesthetic  ex- 
pressions from  other  expressions  is  their  superior  unity. 
In  the  latter,  the  unity  lies  in  the  purpose  to  be  attained 
or  in  the  content  of  the  thought  expressed ;  it  is  teleo- 
logical  or  logical.  The  unity  of  a  chair  is  its  purpose, 
which  demands  just  such  parts  and  in  just  such  a 
mechanical  arrangement;  the  unity  of  a  business 
conversation  is  governed  by  the  bargain  to  be  closed, 
requiring  such  words  and  such  only,  and  in  the  appro- 
priate logical  and  grammatical  order.  The  unity  of 
an  argument  is  the  thesis  to  be  proved ;  the  unity  of  a 
diagram  is  the  principle  to  be  illustrated  or  the  informa- 
tion to  be  imparted.  Compare  the  unity  of  a  sonnet 


30  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

or  a  painting.  In  a  sonnet,  there  is  a  unity  of  thought 
and  sentiment  creating  a  fitting  grammatical  unity  in 
language,  but  in  addition  a  highly  elaborate  pattern 
in  the  words  themselves  that  is  neither  grammatical 
nor  logical.  In  a  painting,  besides  the  dramatic  unity 
of  the  action  portrayed,  as  in  a  battle  scene ;  or  of  the 
spatial  and  mechanical  togetherness  of  things,  as  in  a 
landscape;  there  is  a  harmony  of  the  colors,  a  com- 
position of  the  lines  and  masses  themselves,  not  to  be 
found  in  nature.  And,  although  the  general  shape 
and  arrangement  of  the  parts  of  a  useful  object  is 
dominated  by  its  purpose,  if  it  is  also  beautiful  —  a 
Louis  Seize  chair,  for  example  —  there  is,  besides,  a 
design  that  cannot  be  explained  by  use.  In  artistic 
expressions,  therefore,  there  exists  a  unity  in  the 
material,  superposed  upon  the  unity  required  by  the 
purpose  or  thought  expressed.  And  this  property 
follows  from  the  preceding.  For,  since  the  medium 
is  valuable  in  itself,  the  mind,  which  craves  unity 
everywhere,  craves  it  there  also,  and  lingers  longer 
and  more  happily  on  finding  it ;  and,  since  the  medium 
can  be  expressive,  the  unity  of  the  fundamental  mood 
of  the  thought  expressed  will  overflow  into  and  pervade 
it.  Hence  there  occurs  an  autonomous  development 
of  unity  in  the  material,  raising  the  total  unity  of  the 
expression  to  a  higher  power. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  INTRINSIC  VALUE  OF  ART 

OUR  definition  of  art  can  be  complete  only  if  it 
enables  us  to  understand  the  value  of  art.  The  reader 
may  well  ask  what  possible  value  expression  can  have 
when  it  becomes  an  end  in  itself.  "I  can  understand," 
he  may  say,  "the  value  of  expression  for  the  sake  of 
communication  and  influence,  but  what  value  can  it 
have  of  itself  ?  "  At  this  point,  moreover,  we  are  con- 
cerned with  the  intrinsic  value  immediately  realized 
in  the  experience  of  art,  not  with  further  values  that 
may  result  from  it.  Art,  no  less  than  practical  ex- 
pression, may  have  effects  on  other  experiences,  which 
have  to  be  considered  in  measuring  its  total  worth; 
but  these  we  shall  leave  for  investigation  in  our  last 
chapters,  after  we  have  reached  our  fullest  compre- 
hension of  art ;  we  are  interested  now,  in  order  to  test 
and  complete  our  definition,  in  the  resident  value  only. 

As  a  help  toward  reaching  a  satisfactory  view,  let  us 
examine  critically  some  of  the  chief  theories  in  the 
field.  First,  the  theory,  often  called  "hedonistic," 
that  the  value  of  art  consists  in  the  satisfactions  of 
sense  which  the  media  of  aesthetic  expression  afford  — 
the  delight  in  color  and  sound  and  rhythmical  move- 
ment of  line  and  form.  The  theory  finds  support  in 
the  industrial  arts,  where  beauty  often  seems  to  be 
only  a  luxurious  charm  supervening  upon  utility ;  but 

31 


32  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

also  in  painting  and  sculpture  when  appreciated  in 
their  decorative  capacity  as  "things  of  beauty."  There 
is  a  partial  truth  in  this  theory ;  for,  as  we  have  seen, 
the  sensuous  media  of  all  the  arts  tend  to  be  developed 
in  the  direction  of  pleasure ;  and  no  man  who  lacks  feel- 
ing for  purely  sensuous  values  can  enter  into  the 
fullness  of  the  aesthetic  experience.  But  the  theory 
fails  in  not  recognizing  the  expressive  function  of  sensa- 
tion in  art.  As  Goethe  said,  art  was  long  formative, 
that  is,  expressive,  before  it  was  beautiful,  in  the  narrow 
sense  of  charming.1  In  order  to  be  beautiful,  it  is  not 
enough  for  a  work  of  art  to  offer  us  delightful  colors 
and  lines  and  sounds ;  it  must  also  have  a  meaning  — 
it  must  speak  to  us,  tell  us  something. 

The  second  theory  which  I  shall  examine  is  the 
moralistic  or  Platonic.  According  to  this,  art  is  an 
image  of  the  good,  and  has  value  in  so  far  as  through 
expression  it  enables  us  to  experience  edifying  emotions 
or  to  contemplate  noble  objects.  The  high  beauty  of 
the  "Sistine  Madonna,"  for  example,  would  be  ex- 
plained as  identical  with  the  worth  of  the  religious 
feelings  which  it  causes  in  the  mind  of  the  beholder. 
The  advantage  of  art  over  life  is  supposed  to  consist  in 
its  power  to  create  in  the  imagination  better  and  more 
inspiring  objects  than  life  can  offer,  and  to  free  and 
control  the  contemplation  of  them.  This  is  the  nar- 
rower interpretation  of  the  theory.  When  the  notion 
of  the  good  is  liberalized  so  as  to  include  innocent 
happiness  as  well  as  the  strictly  ethical  and  religious 
values,  beauty  is  conceded  to  belong  to  pictures  of  fair 

1  "Die  kunst  is  lange  bildend  eh  sie schon  1st."    Von  Deutscher  Baukunst, 
1773. 


The  Intrinsic  Value  of  Art  33 

women  and  children,  and  to  lyrics  and  romances,  pro- 
vided there  is  nothing  in  them  to  shock  the  moral 
sense.  ^Esthetic  value  is  the  reflection  —  the  imagi- 
native equivalent  —  of  moral  or  practical  value. 

The  prime  difficulty  of  this  theory  is  its  inadequacy 
as  an  interpretation  of  the  whole  of  actual  art ;  for,  in 
order  to  find  support  among  existing  examples,  it  is 
compelled  to  make  an  arbitrary  selection  of  such  as 
can  be  made  to  fit  it.  Actual  art  is  quite  as  much  an 
image  of  evil  as  of  good;  there  is  nothing  devilish 
which  it  has  not  represented.  And  this  part  of  art  is 
often  of  the  highest  aesthetic  merit.  Velasquez's  pic- 
tures of  dwarfs  and  degenerate  princes  are  as  artistic 
as  Raphael's  Madonnas;  Goethe's  Mephistopheles  is 
one  of  his  supreme  artistic  achievements ;  Shakespeare 
is  as  successful  artistically  in  his  delineation  of  Lady 
Macbeth  as  of  Desdemona.  Now  for  us  who  claim 
that  the  purpose  of  art  must  be  divined  from  the  actual 
practice  of  artists,  from  the  inside,  and  should  not  be 
an  arbitrary  construction,  from  the  outside,  the  exist- 
ence of  such  examples  is  sufficient  to  refute  the  theory 
in  question.  If  the  artist  finds  a  value  in  the  repre- 
sentation of  evil,  value  exists  there  and  can  be  dis- 
covered. 

If,  indeed,  the  sole  effect  of  artistic  expression  were 
to  bring  to  the  mind  objects  and  emotions  in  the  same 
fashion  that  ordinary  life  does,  then  the  value  of  art, 
the  image  of  life,  would  be  a  function  of  the  value  of 
the  life  imaged.  And  just  as  one  seeks  contact  with 
the  good  in  real  life  and  avoids  the  evil,  so  one  would 
seek  in  art  imaginative  contact  with  the  good  alone. 
But  expression,  and  above  all  artistic  expression,  does 


34  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

something  more  than  present  objects  to  the  imagina- 
tion and  arouse  emotions.  Art  is  not  life  over  again,  a 
mere  shadow  of  life ;  if  it  were,  what  would  be  its 
unique  value?  who  would  not  prefer  the  substance  to 
the  shadow?  The  expression  of  life  is  not  life  itself; 
hence,  even  if  the  evil  in  life  be  always  evil,  the  expres- 
sion of  it  may  still  be  a  good. 

Another  theory,  often  called  the  "  intellectualistic " 
theory,  claims  that  the  purpose  of  art  is  truth.  "  Beauty 
is  truth;  truth,  beauty."  The  immediate  pleasure 
which  we  feel  in  the  beautiful  is  the  same  as  the  instant 
delight  in  the  apprehension  of  truth.  There  is  no 
difference  in  purpose  or  value  between  science  and  art, 
but  only  a  difference  in  method  —  science  presents 
truth  in  the  form  of  the  abstract  judgment ;  art,  in  the 
form  of  the  concrete  image  or  example. 

The  difficulty  with  this  theory  is  the  uncertainty 
as  to  what  is  meant  by  truth ;  hence  the  many  shapes 
it  assumes.  But  before  going  deeply  into  this  question, 
let  us  consider  some  of  the  simple  facts  which  seem  to 
tell  for  and  against  the  theory.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  many  examples  of  the  representative  arts  —  paint- 
ing, sculpture,  novel,  and  drama  —  are  praised  for  their 
truth.  We  demand  truth  of  coloring  or  line  in  paint- 
ing, of  form  in  sculpture,  of  character  and  social  rela- 
tion in  the  drama  or  novel.  On  the  other  hand,  we 
admit  aesthetic  value  to  fanciful  painting  and  literature, 
and  to  expressions  of  beliefs  which  no  one  accepts  at 
the  present  time.  We  appreciate  the  beauty  of  Dante's 
descriptions  of  the  Inferno  and  of  the  conversations 
between  him  and  its  inhabitants  without  believing 
them  to  be  reports  of  fact.  No  one  values  the  Blue 


The  Intrinsic  Value  of  Art  35 

Bird  the  less  because  it  is  not  an  account  of  an  actual 
occurrence.  Even  with  regard  to  the  realistic  novel 
and  drama,  no  one  thinks  of  holding  them  to  the 
standards  of  historical  or  scientific  accuracy.  And, 
although  we  may  demand  of  a  landscape  painting 
plausibility  of  color  and  line,  we  certainly  do  not  re- 
quire that  it  be  a  representation  of  any  identifiable 
scene. 

If  by  truth,  therefore,  be  meant  a  description  or 
image  of  matters  of  fact,  then  surely  it  is  not  the  pur- 
pose of  art  to  give  us  this  truth.  The  artist,  to  be  sure, 
may  give  this,  as  when  the  landscapist  paints  some 
locality  dear  to  his  client  or  the  portraitist  paints  the 
client  himself ;  but  he  does  not  need  to  do  this,  and  the 
aesthetic  value  of  his  work  is  independent  of  it;  for 
the  picture  possesses  its  beauty  even  when  we  know 
nothing  of  its  model.  In  the  language  of  current 
philosophy,  truth  in  the  sense  of  the  correspondence 
of  a  portrayal  to  an  object  external  to  the  portrayal,  is 
not  "artistic  truth." 

The  partisans  of  the  intellectualistic  theory  would, 
of  course,  deny  that  they  ever  meant  truth  with  this 
meaning.  "We  mean  by  truth,"  they  would  say,  "an 
embodiment  in  sensuous  or  imaginative  form  of  some 
universal  principle  of  nature  and  life.  The  image  may 
be  entirely  fictitious  or  fanciful,  but  so  long  as  the 
principle  is  illustrated,  essential  truth,  and  that  is 
beauty,  is  attained."  But  if  this  were  so,  every  work 
of  art  would  be  the  statement  of  a  universal  truth,  as 
indeed  philosophical  adherents  of  this  theory  have 
always  maintained  —  witness  Hegel.  Yet  what  is  the 
universal  truth  asserted  in  one  of  Monet's  pictures  of 


36  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

a  lily  pond  ?  There  is,  of  course,  an  observance  of  the 
general  laws  of  color  and  space,  but  does  the  beauty  of 
the  picture  consist  in  that  ?  Does  it  not  attach  to  the 
representation  of  the  concrete,  individual  pond  ?  I  do 
not  mean  that  there  may  not  be  beauty  in  the  ex- 
pression of  universals ;  in  fact,  I  have  explicitly  main- 
tained that  there  may,  under  certain  conditions;  I 
am  simply  insisting  that  beauty  may  belong  to  expres- 
sions of  the  individual  also,  and  that  you  cannot  reduce 
these  to  mere  illustrations  of  universal  ideas.  Because 
of  its  completeness  and  internal  harmony,  the  philoso- 
pher may  find  the  simplest  melody  a  revelation  of  the 
Absolute;  but  even  if  it  were,  its  beauty  would  still 
pertain  to  it  primarily  as  a  revelation  of  the  individual 
experience  which  it  embodies.  Again,  by  reason  of  the 
freedom  from  the  particular  conditions  out  of  which 
it  arises  acquired  by  a  work  of  art,  its  individual  mean- 
ing easily  becomes  typical,  so  that  it  often  serves  as  a 
universal  under  which  individuals  similar  to  those 
represented  are  subsumed  —  as  when  we  speak  of  "a 
Faust"  or  "a  Hamlet";  nevertheless,  the  adequate 
expression  of  the  individual  is  at  once  the  basis  of  its 
beauty  and  of  its  extended,  universalized  significance. 
It  is  when  works  of  art  are  profoundly  individual  that 
we  generalize  their  meaning.  In  art  the  individual 
never  sinks  to  the  position  of  a  mere  specimen  or 
example  of  a  universal  law.  The  intellectualistic 
theory  is  partly  true  of  symbolic  art,  but  not  wholly, 
for  even  there,  the  individuality  of  the  symbol  counts. 
And  yet,  as  we  shall  see,  there  is  another  meaning  of 
artistic  truth,  which  is  legitimate. 

^Esthetic  value,  therefore,  is  not  alone  sensuous  value 


The  Intrinsic  Value  of  Art  37 

or  ethical  or  scientific  or  philosophical  value.  A  work 
of  art  may  contain  one  or  all  of  these  values ;  but  they 
do  not  constitute  its  unique  value  as  art.  The  fore- 
going attempts  to  define  the  value  of  art  fail  because 
they  renounce  the  idea  of  unique  value,  substituting 
goodness,  sensuous  pleasure,  or  truth-values  found  out- 
side of  art.  But  the  intrinsic  value  of  art  must  be 
unique,  for  it  is  the  value  of  a  unique  activity  —  the 
free  expression  of  experience  in  a  form  delightful  and 
permanent,  mediating  communication.  And  this  value 
we  should  be  able  to  discover  by  seeking  the  difference 
which  supervenes  upon  experience  through  expression 
of  this  kind. 

Apart  from  expression,  experience  may  be  vivid  and 
satisfactory  as  we  feel  and  think  and  dream  and  act; 
yet  it  is  always  in  flux,  coming  and  going,  shifting  and 
unaware.  But  through  expression  it  is  arrested  by 
being  attached  to  a  permanent  form,  and  there  can  be 
retained  and  surveyed.  Experience,  which  is  other- 
wise fluent  and  chaotic,  or  when  orderly  too  busy  with 
its  ends  to  know  itself,  receives  through  expression  the 
fixed,  clear  outlines  of  a  thing,  and  can  be  contemplated 
like  a  thing.  Every  one  has  verified  the  clarifying 
effect  of  expression  upon  ideas,  how  they  thus  acquire 
definiteness  and  coherence,  so  that  even  the  mind  that 
thinks  them  can  hold  them  in  review.  But  this  effect 
upon  feeling  is  no  less  sure.  The  unexpressed  values 
of  experience  are  vague  strivings  embedded  in  chaotic 
sensations  and  images ;  these  expression  sorts  and 
organizes  by  attaching  them  to  definite  ordered  sym- 
bols. Even  what  is  most  intimate  and  fugitive  be- 
comes a  stable  object.  When  put  into  patterned 


38  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

words,  the  subtlest  and  deepest  passions  of  a  poet, 
which  before  were  felt  in  a  dim  and  tangled  fashion, 
are  brought  out  into  the  light  of  consciousness.  In 
music,  the  most  elusive  moods,  by  being  embodied  in 
ordered  sounds,  remain  no  longer  subterranean,  but 
are  objectified  and  lifted  into  clearness.  In  the  novel 
or  drama,  the  writer  is  able  not  only  to  enact  his  visions 
of  life  in  the  imagination,  but,  by  bodying  them  forth  in 
external  words  and  acts,  to  possess  them  for  reflection. 
In  painting,  all  that  is  seen  and  wondered  at  in  nature 
is  seen  with  more  delicacy  and  discrimination  and  felt 
with  greater  freedom;  or  the  vague  fancies  which  a 
heated  imagination  paints  upon  the  background  of  the 
mind  come  out  more  vivid  and  better  controlled,  when 
put  with  care  upon  a  canvas. 

Even  ordinary  expression,  of  course,  arrests  and  clari- 
fies experience,  enabling  us  to  commune  with  ourselves ; 
but  since  its  purpose  is  usually  beyond  itself,  this 
result  is  hasty  and  partial,  limited  to  what  is  needful 
for  the  practical  end  in  view.  In  art  alone  is  this 
value  complete.  For  there,  life  is  intentionally  held 
in  the  medium  of  expression,  put  out  into  color  and  line 
and  sound  for  the  clear  sight  and  contemplation  of 
men.  The  aim  is  just  to  create  life  upon  which  we 
may  turn  back  and  reflect. 

This  effect  of  artistic  expression  upon  experience  has 
usually  been  called  "intuition."  Because  of  its  con- 
notation of  mysterious  knowledge,  intuition  is  not  a 
wholly  satisfactory  word,  yet  is  probably  as  good  as 
any  for  the  purpose  of  denoting  what  artists  and  philoso- 
phers of  art  have  had  in  mind  and  what  we  have  been 
trying  to  describe.  Other  terms  might  also  serve  — 


The  Intrinsic  Value  of  Art  39 

vision,  sympathetic  insight  (sympathetic,  because  it 
includes  the  value  of  experience ;  insight,  because  it 
involves  possessing  experience  as  a  whole  and  ordered, 
and  as  an  object  for  reflection).  Intuition  is  opposed, 
on  the  one  hand,  to  crude  unreflecting  experience  that 
never  observes  itself  as  a  whole  or  attains  to  clearness 
and  self-possession  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  to  science, 
which  gives  the  elements  and  relations  of  an  experience, 
the  classes  to  which  it  belongs,  but  loses  its  uniqueness 
and  its  values.  Science  elaborates  concepts  of  things, 
gives  us  knowledge  about  things ;  art  presents  us  with 
the  experience  of  things  purified  for  contemplation. 
Scientific  truth  is  the  fidelity  of  a  description  to  the 
external  objects  of  experience ;  artistic  truth  is  sympa- 
thetic vision  —  the  organization  into  clearness  of  ex- 
perience itself. 

Compare,  for  illustration,  life  as  we  live  it  from  day 
to  day  with  our  delineation  of  it  as  we  recall  it  and  tell 
it  to  an  intimate  companion ;  and  then  compare  that 
with  the  analysis  and  classification  of  it  which  some 
psychologist  or  sociologist  might  make.  Or  compare 
the  kind  of  knowledge  of  human  nature  that  we  get 
from  Shakespeare  or  Moliere  with  the  sort  that  we 
get  from  the  sciences.  In  the  one  case,  knowledge 
attends  a  personal  acquaintance  with  the  experience,  a 
bringing  of  it  home,  a  feeling  for  its  values,  a  realization 
of  the  inner  necessity  of  its  elements  ;  in  the  other,  it  is 
a  mere  set  of  concepts.  Or  finally,  compare  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  human  figure  contained  in  an  anatomist's 
manual  with  a  painting  of  it,  where  we  not  only  see 
it,  but  in  the  imagination  touch  it  and  move  with  it,  in 
short  live  with  it. 


40  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

Intuition  is  the  effect  of  artistic  appreciation  no  less 
than  of  artistic  creation.  If  the  artist's  expression  of 
his  feelings  and  ideas  results  in  intuition,  our  apprecia- 
tion of  his  work  must  have  the  same  value,  for  appre- 
ciation is  expression  transferred  from  the  artist  to  the 
spectator.  By  means  of  the  colors,  lines,  words,  tones 
that  he  makes,  the  artist  determines  in  us  a  process  of 
expression  similar  to  his.  Out  of  our  own  minds  we 
put  into  the  sense-symbols  he  has  woven  ideas  and 
feelings  which  provide  the  content  and  meaning  he 
intends.  Hence  all  aesthetic  appreciation  is  self-ex- 
pression. This  is  evident  in  the  case  of  the  more 
lyrical  types  of  art.  The  lyric  poem  is  appreci- 
ated by  us  as  an  expression  of  our  own  inner  life; 
music  as  an  expression  of  our  own  slumberous  or  sub- 
conscious moods.  Yet  even  the  more  objective  types 
of  art,  like  the  novel  or  the  drama,  become  forms  of 
self-expression,  for  we  have  to  build  up  the  worlds  which 
they  contain  in  our  own  imagination  and  emotion. 
We  have  to  live  ourselves  out  in  them ;  we  can  under- 
stand them  only  in  terms  of  our  own  life. 

In  the  appreciation  of  the  more  objective  types  of 
art,  the  personality  expressed  is  not,  of  course,  the 
actual  personality;  but  rather  the  self  extended  and 
expanded  through  the  imagination.  The  things  which 
I  seem  to  see  and  enjoy  in  the  landscape  picture  I  may 
have  never  really  seen ;  I  may  have  never  really 
moved  through  the  open  plain  there,  as  I  seem  to 
move,  toward  the  mountain  in  the  distance.  The  acts 
described  in  the  novel  or  portrayed  on  the  stage  I  do 
not  really  perform;  the  opinions  uttered  by  the  per- 
sons I  do  not  hold.  And  yet,  in  order  to  appreciate 


The  Intrinsic  Value  of  Art  41 

the  picture,  it  must  be  as  if  I  really  saw  the  mountain 
and  moved  towards  it;  in  order  to  appreciate  the 
novel  or  the  play,  I  must  make  the  acts  and  opinions 
mine.  And  this  I  can  do ;  for,  as  it  is  a  commonplace 
to  note,  each  one  of  us  has  within  him  capacities  of 
action  and  emotion  and  thought  unrealized  —  the 
actual  self  is  only  one  of  many  that  might  have  been  — 
hundreds  of  possible  lives  slumber  in  our  souls.  And 
no  matter  which  of  these  lives  we  have  chosen  for  our 
own,  or  have  had  forced  upon  us  by  our  fate,  we  always 
retain  a  secret  longing  for  all  the  others  that  have  gone 
unfulfilled,  and  an  understanding  born  of  longing. 
Some  of  these  we  imagine  distinctly  —  those  that  we 
consciously  rejected  or  that  a  turn  of  chance  might 
have  made  ours ;  but  most  of  them  we  ourselves  have 
not  the  power  even  to  dream.  Yet  these  too  beckon 
us  from  behind,  and  the  artist  provides  us  with  their 
dream.  Through  art  we  secure  an  imaginative  realiza- 
tion of  interests  and  latent  tendencies  to  act  and  think 
and  feel  which,  because  they  are  contradictory  among 
themselves  or  at  variance  with  the  conditions  of  our 
existence,  cannot  find  free  play  within  our  experience. 
That  same  sort  of  imaginative  enlarged  expression  of 
self  that  we  get  vicariously  by  participating  in  the 
life  of  our  friends  we  get  also  from  art.1 

Yet  in  appreciation,  as  in  creation,  expression  results 
in  intuition.  Appreciation  is  no  mere  imagining,  transi- 
tory and  lawless  like  a  daydream.  The  activity  of  the 
imagination  is  so  organized  in  a  permanent  and  per- 
spicuous form  that  we  not  only  live  it,  but  possess  it 
as  an  object.  The  activities  engaged  in  building  up 

1  Compare  Santayana :  The  Sense  of  Beauty,  p.  185. 


42  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

the  work  of  art  in  my  own  mind  are  not  the  whole  of 
me;  judgment  remains  free  to  watch  and  synthesize 
those  that  are  being  crystallized  there.  In  looking  at 
a  portrait,  for  example,  the  process  of  interpreting  the 
life  represented  is  ancillary  to  a  total  judgment  of 
character.  In  the  novel  or  drama,  no  matter  with 
what  abandon  I  put  myself  into  the  persons  and  situa- 
tions, the  expression  of  them  in  outward  words  and 
acts,  and  the  organization  which  the  artist  has  imposed 
upon  them,  makes  of  them  permanent  objects  for 
reflection,  not  mere  modes  of  feeling  and  imagining  to 
endure.  Self-expression  that  does  not  attain  to  objec- 
tivity is  incomplete  as  art.  Even  music  and  lyric 
poetry  are  something  more  than  mere  feeling.  In  all 
genuine  art,  experience  takes  on  permanence  and 
form  —  a  synthesis,  a  total  meaning,  supervenes  within 
the  flux  of  impressions  and  ideas  and  moods,  not  ex- 
cluding, but  embracing  and  controlling  them.  That 
is  intuition. 

The  insight  into  experience  which  art  provides  is 
the  more  valuable  because  it  is  communicable;  to 
possess  it  alone  would  be  a  good,  but  to  share  it  is 
better.  All  values  become  enhanced  when  we  add  to 
them  the  joy  of  fellow  feeling.  The  universality  of 
aesthetic  expression  carries  with  it  the  universality  of 
aesthetic  insight.  Merely  private  and  unutterable  in- 
spirations are  not  art.  Beauty  does  for  life  what 
science  does  for  intelligence;  even  as  the  one  uni- 
versalizes thought,  so  the  other  universalizes  values. 
In  expressing  himself,  the  artist  creates  a  form  into 
which  all  similar  experiences  can  be  poured  and  out  of 
which  they  can  all  be  shared.  When,  for  example,  we 


The  Intrinsic  Value  of  Art  43 

listen  to  the  hymns  of  the  church  or  read  the  poems  of 
Horace,  the  significance  of  our  experience  is  magnified 
because  we  find  the  feelings  of  millions  there ;  we  are 
in  unison  with  a  vast  company  living  and  dead.  No 
thing  of  beauty  is  a  private  possession.  All  artists 
feed  on  one  another  and  into  each  experience  of  art  has 
gone  the  mind-work  of  the  ages. 

But  there  are  two  types  of  universality,  one  by 
exclusion,  the  other  by  inclusion.  Communists  like 
Tolstoy  demand  that  art  express  only  those  feelings 
that  are  already  common,  the  religious  and  moral; 
they  would  exclude  all  values  that  have  not  become 
those  of  the  race.  But  this  is  to  diminish  the  impor- 
tance of  art;  for  it  is  art's  privilege  to  make  feelings 
common  by  providing  a  medium  through  which  they 
can  be  communicated  rather  than  merely  to  express 
them  after  they  have  become  common.  Understand- 
ing is  more  valuable  when  it  encompasses  the  things 
that  tend  to  separate  and  distinguish  men  than  when 
it  is  limited  to  the  things  that  unite  them.  There  is 
nothing  so  bizarre  that  art  may  not  express  it,  provided 
it  be  communicable. 

The  life  of  the  imagination,  which  is  the  life  of  art, 
is,  moreover,  the  only  life  that  we  can  have  in  common. 
Sharing  life  can  never  mean  anything  else  than  possess- 
ing the  life  of  one  another  sympathetically.  Actually 
to  lead  another's  life  would  involve  possessing  his 
body,  occupying  his  position,  doing  his  work,  and  so 
destroying  him.  But  through  the  sympathetic  imagi- 
nation we  can  penetrate  his  life  and  leave  him  in  pos- 
session. To  do  this  thoroughly  is  possible,  however, 
only  with  the  life  of  a  very  few  people,  with  intimates 


44  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

and  friends.  With  the  mass,  we  can  share  only  ideal 
things  like  religion  or  patriotism,  but  these  also  are 
matters  of  imagination.  Now  art  enlarges  the  scope 
of  this  common  life  by  creating  a  new  imaginary  world 
to  which  we  can  all  belong,  where  action,  enjoyment, 
and  experience  do  not  involve  competition  or  depend 
on  possession  and  mastery. 

Finally,  the  intuitions  that  art  provides  are  relatively 
permanent.  Art  not  only  extends  life  and  enables  us 
to  share  it,  but  also  preserves  it.  Existence  has  a  leak 
in  it,  as  Plato  said ;  experience  flows  in  and  then  flows 
out  forever.  The  individual  passes  from  one  act  to 
another,  from  one  phase  of  life  to  another,  childhood, 
then  youth,  then  old  age.  So  the  race ;  one  generation 
follows  another,  and  each  type  of  civilization  displaces 
a  predecessor.  Against  this  flux,  our  belief  in  progress 
comforts  us ;  maturity  is  better  than  youth,  we  think, 
and  each  generation  happier  and  more  spiritual  than 
the  last.  Yet  the  consolations  of  progress  are  partial. 
For  even  if  we  always  do  go  on  to  something  better 
in  the  future,  the  past  had  its  unique  value,  and  that 
is  lost  ineluctably.  The  present  doubtless  repeats 
much  of  the  form  of  the  past  —  the  essential  aspects  of 
human  nature  remain  the  same;  but  the  subtle,  dis- 
tinctive bloom  of  each  stage  of  personal  life,  and  of 
each  period  of  the  world's  history,  is  transient.  We 
cannot  again  become  children,  nor  can  we  possess 
again  the  strenuous  freedom  of  the  Renaissance  or  the 
unclouded  integrity  of  personality  of  the  Greeks. 

In  the  life  of  the  individual,  however,  the  flux  is 
not  absolute ;  for  through  memory  we  preserve  some- 
thing of  the  unique  value  of  our  past.  Its  vividness, 


The  Intrinsic  Value  of  Art  45 

its  fullness,  the  sharp  bite  of  its  reality  go;  but  a 
subtilized  essence  remains.  And  the  worth  that  we 
attach  to  our  personality  depends  largely  upon  it ;  for 
the  instinct  of  self-preservation  penetrates  the  inner 
world;  we  strive  not  only  to  maintain  our  physical 
existence  in  the  present,  but  our  psychic  past  as  well. 
In  conserving  the  values  of  the  past  through  memory 
we  find  a  satisfaction  akin  to  that  of  protecting  our 
lives  from  danger.  Through  memory  we  feel  child- 
hood's joys  and  youth's  sweet  love  and  manhood's 
triumphs  still  our  own,  secure  against  the  perils  of 
oblivion. 

Now  art  does  for  the  race  what  memory  does  for  the 
individual.  Only  through  expression  can  the  past  be 
preserved  for  all  men  and  all  time.  When  the  indi- 
vidual perishes,  his  memories  go  with  him;  unless, 
therefore,  he  puts  them  into  a  form  where  they  can  be 
taken  up  into  the  consciousness  of  other  men,  they  are 
lost  forever.  And  just  as  the  individual  seeks  a  vicari- 
ous self-preservation  through  identifying  himself  with 
his  children  and  his  race,  and  finds  compensation 
for  his  own  death  in  their  continuance,  so  he  rejoices 
when  he  knows  that  men  who  come  after  will  appreciate 
the  values  of  his  life.  We  of  the  present  feel  ourselves 
enriched,  in  turn,  as  by  a  longer  memory,  in  adding  to 
the  active  values  of  our  own  lives  the  remembered 
values  of  the  past.  Their  desire  to  know  themselves 
immortal  is  met  by  our  desire  to  unite  our  lives  with 
all  our  past.  Art  alone  makes  this  possible.  History 
may  tell  us  what  men  did,  but  only  the  poet  or  other 
artist  can  make  us  relive  the  values  of  their  experience. 
For  through  expression  they  make  their  memories,  or 


46  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

their  interpretations  of  other  men's  memories,  ours.  Art 
is  the  memory  of  the  race,  the  conserver  of  its  values. 
The  distinguishing  characteristics  of  aesthetic  ex- 
pression observed  by  us  —  the  pleasurableness  of  the 
medium,  the  enhanced  unity  —  serve  intuition  as  that 
has  been  described  by  us.  One  of  the  strongest  objec- 
tions against  the  theory  of  art  as  intuition,  as  that 
theory  has  been  developed  by  Croce,  for  example,  is 
that  it  provides  no  place  for  charm.  Yet  without 
charm  there  is  no  complete  beauty,  and  any  interpre- 
tation of  the  facts  of  the  aesthetic  experience  which 
neglects  this  element  is  surely  inadequate.  But  charm 
although  an  indispensable,  is  not  an  independent,  factor 
in  the  experience  of  art;  for  it  serves  intuition.  It 
does  so  in  two  ways.  The  charm  of  the  medium,  by 
drawing  attention  to  itself,  increases  the  objectivity  of 
the  experience  expressed.  Even  when  the  experiences 
felt  into  color  and  line  and  sound  are  poignantly  our 
own,  to  live  pleasantly  in  any  one  of  these  sensations 
is  to  live  as  an  object  to  oneself,  the  life  sharing  the 
externality  of  the  medium  —  we  put  our  life  out  there 
more  readily  when  it  is  pleasant  there.  And  the  charm 
of  the  medium  serves  intuition  in  another  way.  When 
the  activities  of  thought  and  feeling  and  imagination 
released  by  the  work  of  art  are  delightful,  they  become 
more  delightful  still  if  the  medium  in  which  they 
function  is  itself  delightful.  To  imagine 

Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  fairy  lands  forlorn 

is  a  pleasure  by  itself,  but  more  pleasurable,  and  there- 
fore more  spontaneous,  because  of  the  melody  of  sound 


The  Intrinsic  Value  of  Art  47 

in  which  it  is  enveloped.  And  when  the  activities 
expressed  are  not  pleasant,  the  expression  of  them  in  a 
delightful  medium  helps  to  induce  us  to  make  them  our 
own  and  accept  them  notwithstanding.  The  medium 
becomes  a  charming  net  to  hold  us,  and  because  of  its 
allurements  we  give  ourselves  the  more  freely  to  its 
spirit  within.  The  following,  for  example,  is  not  an 
agreeable  thought : 

To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day, 
To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time ; 
And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
The  way  to  dusty  death. 

Yet  the  expression  of  this  thought  is  pleasant,  among 
other  reasons,  because  of  the  rhythmic  charm  of  lan- 
guage. We  shall  come  back  to  this  fact  in  our  chapter 
on  "The  Problem  of  Evil  in  ^Esthetics."  There  is  no 
contradiction  between  the  fair  form  of  a  work  of  art 
and  its  content,  however  repellent.  For  if  we  value 
the  sympathetic  knowledge  of  life,  we  shall  be  glad  of 
any  means  impelling  us  to  undertake  what  alone  can 
give  this  —  a  friendly  dwelling  with  life  itself.  Thus 
the  decorative  and  the  expressive  functions  of  art  are 
reconciled  —  pleasure  and  intuition  meet. 

Just  as  from  time  to  time  pleasure  in  sensation  has 
been  one-sidedly  thought  to  be  the  purpose  of  art,  so 
likewise  the  unity  characteristic  of  beautiful  things. 
Indeed,  beauty  and  order  have  become  almost  synony- 
mous in  popular  thought.  And,  to  be  sure,  this  unity, 
as  we  have  already  remarked,  has  its  own  value;  the 
mind  delights  in  order  just  for  its  own  sake,  and  the 


48  The  Principles  of  Esthetics 

artist,  who  is  bent  on  making  something  worthful  on  its 
own  account,  strives  to  develop  it  for  that  reason. 
And  yet  unity  is  no  more  independent  of  expression 
and  intuition  than  sensation  is;  it  too  enters  into 
their  service.  Many  forms  of  unity  in  works  of  art 
are  themselves  media  of  expression  —  the  simplest  and 
most  striking  example  is  perhaps  the  rhythmical  order- 
ing of  sounds  in  poetry  and  music,  the  emotional  value 
of  which  everybody  appreciates.  In  a  later  chapter,  I 
shall  try  to  show  that  the  same  is  true  of  harmony  and 
balance.  In  another  way,  also,  unity  serves  intuition. 
For  the  existence  of  order  in  an  experience  is  indispen- 
sable to  that  wholeness  of  view,  that  mastery  in  the 
mind,  which  is  half  of  intuition.  The  merely  various, 
the  chaotic,  the  disorganized,  cannot  be  grasped  or 
understood.  In  order  that  an  experience  may  be  under- 
stood, its  items  must  be  strung  together  by  some  prin- 
ciple in  terms  of  which  they  may  demand  each  other 
and  constitute  a  whole.  Organization  is  understand- 
ing. Every  work  of  art,  every  beautiful  thing,  is 
organized,  and,  as  we  have  observed,  organized  not 
merely  in  the  thought  or  other  meaning  expressed,  but 
throughout,  in  the  sensuous  medium  as  well. 

So  far  the  value  which  we  have  discovered  in  artistic 
expression  has  been  that  of  delightful  and  orderly 
sympathetic  vision.  This  is  supplemented  from  still 
another  source  of  value.  Through  artistic  expression 
pent-up  emotions  find  a  welcome  release.  No  matter 
how  poignant  be  the  experience  expressed,  the  weight, 
the  sting  of  it  disappears  through  expression.  For 
through  expression,  as  we  have  seen,  the  experience  is 
drawn  from  the  dark  depths  of  the  self  to  the  clear  and 


The  Intrinsic  Value  of  Art  49 

orderly  surface  of  the  work  of  art;  the  emotions  that 
weighed  are  lifted  out  and  up  into  color  and  line  and 
sound,  where  the  mind  can  view  and  master  them. 
Mere  life  gives  place  to  the  contemplation  of  life ;  and 
contemplation  imposes  on  life  some  of  the  calm  that 
is  its  own.  The  most  violent  and  unruly  passions  may 
be  the  material  of  art,  but  once  they  are  put  into 
artistic  form  they  are  mastered  and  refined.  "There 
is  an  art  of  passion,  but  no  passionate  art"  (Schiller). 
Through  expression,  the  repression,  the  obstruction  of 
feeling  is  broken  down ;  the  mere  effort  to  find  and 
elaborate  a  fitting  artistic  form  for  the  material  diverts 
the  attention  and  provides  other  occupation  for  the 
mind;  an  opportunity  is  given  to  reflect  upon  and 
understand  the  experience,  bringing  it  somehow  into 
harmony  with  one's  total  life, —  through  all  these 
means  procuring  relief.  It  is  impossible  to  cite  the 
famous  passage  from  Goethe's  "Poetry  and  Truth" 
too  often :  — 

And  thus  began  that  bent  of  mind  from  which  I  could  not 
deviate  my  whole  life  through ;  namely,  that  of  turning  into 
an  image,  into  a  poem,  everything  that  delighted  or  troubled 
me,  or  otherwise  occupied  my  attention,  and  of  coming  to 
some  certain  understanding  with  myself  thereupon.  .  .  . 
All  the  works  therefore  that  have  been  published  by  me  are 
only  fragments  of  one  great  confession.1 

This  effect  of  artistic  expression  belongs,  of  course, 
to  other  forms  of  expression.  Every  confession,  every 
confidential  outpouring  of  emotion,  is  an  example. 
We  have  all  verified  the  truth  that  to  formulate  feeling 

1  English  translation,  edited  by  Parke  Godwin,  Vol.  I,  p.  66. 


50  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

is  to  be  free  with  reference  to  it ;  not  that  we  thereby 
get  rid  of  it,  but  that  we  are  able  to  look  it  in  the  face, 
and  find  some  place  for  it  in  our  world  where  we  can 
live  on  good  terms  with  it.  The  greatest  difficulty 
in  bearing  with  any  disappointment  or  sorrow  comes 
not  from  the  thing  itself  —  for  after  all  we  have  other 
things  to  live  for  —  but  from  its  effect  upon  the  pre- 
suppositions, so  to  speak,  of  our  entire  existence.  The 
mind  has  an  unconscious  set  of  axioms  or  postulates 
which  it  assumes  in  the  process  of  living;  now  any- 
thing that  seems  to  contradict  these,  as  a  great  calamity 
does,  by  destroying  the  logic  of  life,  makes  existence 
seem  meaningless  and  corrupts  that  faith  in  life  which 
is  the  spring  of  action.  In  order  for  the  health  of  the 
mind  to  be  restored,  the  contradictory  fact  must  be 
somehow  reconciled  with  the  mind's  presuppositions, 
and  the  rationality  of  existence  reaffirmed.  But  an 
indispensable  preliminary  to  this  is  that  we  should 
clearly  envisage  and  reflect  upon  the  fact,  viewing  it 
in  its  larger  relations,  where  it  will  lose  its  overwhelm- 
ing significance.  Now  that  is  what  expression,  by 
stabilizing  and  clarifying  experience,  enables  us  to  do. 
A  great  many  works  of  art  besides  Goethe's,  not 
merely  of  lyric  poetry,  but  also  of  the  novel  and  drama, 
among  them  some  of  the  greatest,  like  the  Divine 
Comedy,  so  far  as  they  spring  intimately  from  the  life 
of  the  artist,  are  "fragments  of  a  great  confession," 
and  have  had  the  sanitary  value  of  a  confession  for 
their  creators.  It  is  not  always  possible  to  trace  the 
personal  feelings  and  motives  lying  behind  the  artist's 
fictions ;  for  the  suffering  soul  covers  its  pains  with 
subtle  disguises ;  yet  even  when  we  do  not  know  them, 


The  Intrinsic  Value  of  Art  51 

we  can  divine  them.  We  are  certain,  for  example, 
that  Watteau's  gay  pictured  visions  were  the  pro- 
jection —  and  confession  —  of  his  own  disappointed 
dreams.  The  great  advantage  of  art  over  ordinary 
expression,  in  this  respect,  is  its  universality.  Art  is 
the  confessional  of  the  race.  The  artist  provides  a 
medium  through  which  all  men  can  confess  themselves 
and  heal  their  souls.  In  making  the  artist's  expression 
ours,  we  find  an  equal  relief.  Who  does  not  feel  a 
revival  of  some  old  or  present  despair  of  his  own  when 
he  reads :  — 

Un  grand  sommeil  noir  Je  ne  vois  plus  rien, 

Tombe  sur  ma  vie ;  Je  perds  la  memoire 

Dormez  toute  espoir,  Du  mal  et  du  bien.  .  .  . 

Dormez  toute  envie  !  Oh,  la  triste  histoire  ! 

yet  who  does  not  at  the  same  time  experience  its 
assuagement?  And  this  effect  is  not  confined  to 
lyrical  art,  for  so  far  as,  in  novel  and  drama,  we  put 
ourselves  in  the  place  of  the  dramatis  personse,  we  can 
pour  our  own  emotional  experiences  into  them  and 
through  them  find  relief  for  ourselves.  Just  so,  Aris- 
totle recognized  the  cathartic  or  healing  influence  of 
art,  both  in  music  and  the  drama  — "through  pity  and 
fear  effecting  the  proper  purgation  of  these  emotions."  1 
The  delightsomeness  of  the  work  of  art  and  its  self- 
sufficient  freedom,  standing  in  contrast  with  the  drab 
or  difficult  realities  of  nature  and  personal  striving, 
serve  also  to  make  of  beauty  a  consoler  and  healer. 
In  place  of  a  confused  medley  of  sense  impressions,  art 
offers  orderly  and  pleasant  colors  or  sounds;  instead 

1  Poetics,  6,  2.     Politics,  5,  7. 


52  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

of  a  real  life  of  duties  hard  to  fulfill  and  ambitions 
painfully  accomplished,  art  provides  an  imagined  life 
which,  while  imitating  and  thus  preserving  the  interest 
of  real  life,  remains  free  from  its  hazards  and  burdens. 
I  would  not  base  the  value  of  art  on  the  contrast 
between  art  and  life ;  yet  it  is  unlikely,  I  think,  if  life 
were  not  so  bound  and  disordered,  that  art  would  seem 
so  free  and  perfect ;  and  it  is  often  true  that  those  who 
suffer  and  struggle  most  love  art  best.  The  unity  of 
the  work  of  art,  in  which  each  element  suggests  another 
within  its  world,  keeping  you  there  and  shutting  you 
out  momentarily  from  the  real  world  to  which  you 
must  presently  return,  and  the  sensuous  charm  of  the 
medium,  fascinating  your  eyes  and  ears,  bring  forget- 
fulness  and  a  temporary  release. 

To  sum  the  results  of  the  last  two  chapters.  Art  is 
expression,  not  of  mere  things  or  ideas,  but  of  concrete 
experience  with  its  values,  and  for  its  own  sake.  It  is 
experience  held  in  a  delightful,  highly  organized  sensuous 
medium,  and  objectified  there  for  communication  and 
reflection.  Its  value  is  in  the  sympathetic  mastery 
and  preservation  of  life  in  the  mind. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    ANALYSIS    OF    THE   AESTHETIC    EXPERIENCE:     THE 
ELEMENTS   OF  THE  EXPERIENCE 

THUS  far  we  have  sought  to  define  art,  to  form  a 
concrete  idea  of  the  experience  of  art,  and  to  place  it 
in  its  relations  to  other  facts.  We  shall  now  pass  from 
synthetic  definition  to  psychological  analysis.  We 
want  to  pick  out  the  elements  of  mind  entering  into 
the  experience  of  art  and  exhibit  their  characteristic 
relations.  In  the  present  chapter  we  shall  concern 
ourselves  chiefly  with  the  elements,  leaving  the  study 
of  most  of  the  problems  of  structure  to  the  following 
chapter. 

Every  experience  of  art 1  contains,  in  the  first  place, 
the  sensations  which  are  the  media  of  expression.  In  a 
painting,  for  example,  there  are  colors;  in  a  piece  of 
music,  tones;  in  a  poem,  word-sounds.  To  this 
material,  secondly,  are  attached  vague  feelings.  It  is 
characteristic  of  aesthetic  expressions,  as  we  have 
observed,  that  their  media,  quite  apart  from  any- 
thing that  they  may  mean  or  represent,  are  expressive 
of  moods  —  the  colors  of  a  painting  have  a  stimmung, 
so  have  tones  and  words,  when  rhythmically  composed. 
The  simplest  aesthetic  experiences,  like  the  beauty  of 
single  musical  tones  or  colors,  are  of  no  greater  com- 

1  Throughout  this  discussion,  I  use  "  experience  of  art,"  "  aesthetic  ex- 
perience," and  "  beauty  "  with  the  same  meaning. 

53 


54  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

plexity;  yet  almost  all  works  of  art  contain  further 
elements;  for  as  a  rule  the  sensations  do  not  exist  for 
their  own  sakes  alone,  but  possess  a  function,  to  rep- 
resent things.  The  colors  of  a  landscape  painting  are 
not  only  interesting  to  us  as  beautiful  colors,  but  as 
symbols  of  a  landscape;  the  words  of  a  ballad  charm 
and  stimulate  us  not  only  through  their  music,  but 
because  of  actions  or  events  which  they  bring  before 
the  mind.  This  involves,  psychologically  speaking, 
that  certain  ideas  —  of  trees  and  clouds  in  the  painting, 
of  men  and  their  deeds  in  the  poem  —  are  associated 
to  the  sense  elements  and  constitute  their  meaning. 
Such  ideas  or  meanings  are  the  third  class  of  elements 
in  the  aesthetic  experience.  But  these  ideas,  in  their 
turn,  also  arouse  emotions,  only  not  of  the  indefinite 
sort  which  belong  to  the  sense  elements,  but  definite, 
like  the  emotions  aroused  by  things  and  events  in  real 
life.  For  example,  Rembrandt's  "Man  with  the  Gold 
Helmet"  will  not  only  move  us  in  a  vague  way  through 
the  character  and  rhythm  of  its  lines  and  colors,  but 
will,  in  addition,  stimulate  sentiments  of  respect  and 
veneration,  similar  to  those  that  we  should  feel  if  the 
old  warrior  were  himself  before  us.  In  such  definite 
feelings  we  have,  then,  a  fourth  class  of  mental  ele- 
ments. A  fifth  class  will  make  our  list  complete.  It 
consists  of  images  from  the  various  sense  departments 
—sight,  hearing,  taste,  smell,  temperature,  movement — 
which  arise  in  connection  with  the  ideas  or  meanings, 
making  them  concrete  and  full.  For  example,  some 
of  the  colors  in  a  landscape  painting  will  not  only  give 
us  the  idea  that  there  is  sunlight  there,  but  will  also 
arouse  faint  images  of  warmth,  which  will  make  the 


The  Elements  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     55 

idea  more  vivid ;  other  colors,  representing  the  clouds, 
will  produce  faint  sensations  of  softness ;  still  others, 
representing  flowers,  may  produce  faint  odors. 

Let  us  study  sensation  as  an  element  in  beauty,  first. 
Sensation  is  the  door  through  which  we  enter  into  the 
experience  of  beauty ;  and,  again,  it  is  the  foundation 
upon  which  the  whole  structure  rests.  Without  feel- 
ing for  the  values  of  sensation,  men  may  be  sympa- 
thetic and  intelligent,  but  they  cannot  be  lovers  of  the 
beautiful.  They  may,  for  example,  appreciate  the 
profound  or  interesting  ideas  in  poetry,  but  unless 
they  can  connect  them  with  the  rhythm-values  of  the 
sounds  of  the  words,  they  have  only  an  intellectual  or 
emotional,  not  an  aesthetic  experience. 

Yet,  despite  the  omnipresence  and  supreme  worth  of 
sensation  in  beauty,  not  all  kinds  are  equally  fit  for 
entrance  into  the  experience.  From  the  time  of 
Plato,  who  writes  of  "fair  sights  and  sounds"  only, 
vision  and  hearing  have  been  recognized  as  the  pre- 
eminently aesthetic  senses.  These  senses  provide  the 
basis  for  all  the  arts  —  music  and  poetry  are  arts  of 
sound ;  painting,  sculpture,  and  architecture  are  arts 
of  vision.  And  there  are  good  reasons  for  their  special 
fitness.  Most  cogent  of  all  is  the  fact  that  vision  and 
hearing  are  the  natural  media  of  expression ;  sounds, 
be  they  words  or  musical  tones,  convey  thoughts  and 
feelings ;  so  do  visual  sensations  —  the  facial  expression 
or  gesture  seen  communicates  the  inner  life  of  the 
speaker;  and  even  abstract  colors  and  space-forms, 
like  red  and  the  circle,  have  independent  feeling- tones. 
A  taste  or  a  temperature  sensation  may  be  pleasant  or 
unpleasant,  but  has  no  meaning,  either  by  itself,  as  a 


56  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

color  or  a  tone  has,  or  through  association,  as  a  word 
has.  It  has  no  connection  with  the  life  of  feeling  or  of 
thought.  Its  chief  significance  is  practical  —  sweet 
invites  to  eating,  cold  impels  to  the  seeking  of  a  warm 
shelter,  touch  is  a  preliminary  to  grasping.  All  the 
so-called  lower  senses  are  bound  up  with  instincts  and 
actions.  Of  course  sights  and  sounds  have  also  a 
significance  for  instinct  —  the  color  and  form  and  voice 
of  the  individual  of  the  opposite  sex,  for  example. 
But,  before  acting  on  the  prompting  of  instinct,  the 
lover  may  pause  and  enjoy  the  appealing  color  and 
form ;  he  may  connect  his  feelings  with  them  and  hold 
on  to  and  delight  in  the  resulting  experience  —  an 
emotional  appreciation  of  the  object  may  intervene 
between  the  stimulus  and  the  appropriate  action,  and 
even  supplant  it.  In  this  way,  vision  and  hearing  may 
free  themselves  from  the  merely  practical  and  become 
autonomous  embodiments  of  feeling.  The  distance 
between  the  seen  or  heard  object  and  the  body  is 
important.  The  objects  of  touch  and  taste,  on  the 
other  hand,  have  to  be  brought  into  contact  with  the 
body ;  the  practical  reaction  then  follows ;  there  is  no 
time  during  which  it  may  be  suspended. 

Important  also,  especially  for  the  beauty  of  art, 
is  our  greater  power  to  control  sensations  of  vision  and 
hearing.  Only  colors  and  sounds  can  be  woven  into 
complex  and  stable  wholes.  Tastes  and  odors,  when 
produced  simultaneously  or  in  succession,  do  not  keep 
their  distinctness  as  colors  and  sounds  do,  but  blur  and 
interfere  with  each  other.  No  one,  however  ingenious, 
could  construct  a  symphony  of  odors  or  a  picture  of 
tastes.  Nevertheless,  the  possibility  of  controlling 


The  Elements  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     57 

colors  and  sounds  and  of  creating  stable  and  public 
objects  out  of  them,  is  only  a  secondary  reason  for  their 
aesthetic  fitness.  Even  if  one  could  construct  instru- 
ments for  the  orderly  production  of  tastes  and  odors 
—  and  simple  instruments  of  this  kind  have  been 
devised  —  one  could  not  make  works  of  art  out  of 
them ;  for  a  succession  of  such  sensations  would  express 
nothing ;  they  would  still  be  utterly  without  meaning. 
The  fundamental  reason  for  the  superiority  of  sights 
and  sounds  is  their  expressiveness,  their  connection 
with  the  life  of  feeling  and  thought.  They  take  root 
in  the  total  self;  whereas  the  other  elements  remain, 
for  the  most  part,  on  the  surface. 

Under  favorable  conditions,  however,  all  sensations 
may  enter  into  the  aesthetic  experience.  Despite  the 
close  connection  between  the  lower  senses  and  the 
impulses  serving  practical  life,  there  is  a  certain  dis- 
interestedness in  all  pleasant  sensations.  Fine  wines 
and  perfumes  offer  tastes  and  odors  which  are  sought 
and  enjoyed  apart  from  the  satisfaction  of  hunger; 
in  dancing,  movement  sensations  are  enjoyed  for  their 
own  sake;  in  the  bath,  heat  and  cold.  But,  as  we 
have  seen,  it  is  not  sufficient  for  a  sensation  to  be  free 
from  practical  ends  in  order  to  become  aesthetic;  it 
must  be  connected  with  the  larger  background  of 
feeling;  it  must  be  expressive.  Now,  under  certain 
circumstances  and  in  particular  cases,  this  may  occur, 
even  in  the  instance  of  the  lower  senses.  The  perfume 
of  flowers,  of  roses  and  of  violets,  has  a  strong  emotional 
appeal ;  it  is  their  "  soul "  as  the  poets  say.  The  odor  of 
incense  in  a  cathedral  may  be  an  important  element 
in  devotion,  fusing  with  the  music  and  the  architecture. 


58  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

Or  recall  the  odor  of  wet  earth  and  reviving  vegetation 
during  a  walk  in  the  woods  on  a  spring  morning.  Even 
sensations  of  taste  may  become  aesthetic.  An  oft- 
cited  example  is  the  taste  of  wine  on  a  Rhine  steamer. 
Guyau,  the  French  poet-philosopher,  mentions  the 
taste  of  milk  after  a  hard  climb  in  the  Pyrenees.1  A 
drink  of  water  from  a  clear  spring  would  serve  equally 
well  as  an  example  familiar  to  all.  The  warmth  of  a 
fire,  of  sunlight,  of  a  cozy  room,  or  the  cold  of  a  star-lit 
winter  night  have  an  emotional  significance  almost, 
if  not  quite,  equal  to  that  of  the  visual  sensations  from 
these  objects.  Touch  seems  to  be  irretrievably  bound 
up  with  grasping  and  using,  but  the  touch  of  a  well-loved 
person  may  be  a  free  and  glowing  experience,  sharing 
with  sight  in  beauty.  The  movement  sensations  during 
a  run  in  the  open  air  or  in  dancing  are  not  only  free 
from  all  practical  purpose,  but  are  elements  in  the  total 
animation.  And  other  examples  will  come  to  the  mind 
of  every  reader.2 

As  our  illustrations  show,  the  lower  senses  enter  into 
the  beauty  of  nature  only ;  they  do  not  enter  into  the 
beauty  of  art.  Their  beauty  is  therefore  vague  and 
accidental.  It  usually  depends,  moreover,  upon  some 
support  from  vision,  with  the  beauty  of  which  it 
fuses.  Apart  from  the  picturesque  surroundings  seen, 
the  mountain  milk  and  the  Rhine  wine  would  lose  much 
of  their  beauty;  the  warmth  of  sunlight  or  of  fire, 
without  the  brightness  of  these  objects,  the  odor  of 
flowers  without  their  form  and  color,  would  be  of  small 
aesthetic  worth.  Through  connection  with  vision  the 

1  Les  Problemes  de  V  esthftique  contemporaine,  8me  edition,  p.  63. 

1  Compare  Volkelt :   System  der  JEsthetik,  Bd.  I,  Zweites  Capitel,  S.  92. 


The  Elements  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     59 

lower  senses  acquire  something  of  its  permanence  and 
independence.  People  differ  greatly  in  their  capacity  to 
render  the  lower  senses  aesthetic;  it  is  essentially  a 
matter  of  refinement,  of  power  to  free  them  from  their 
natural  root  in  the  practical  and  instinctive,  and  lift 
them  into  the  higher  region  of  sentiment.  But  every 
kind  of  sensation,  however  low,  may  become  beautiful ; 
this  is  not  to  degrade  beauty,  but  to  ennoble  sensation. 

From  a  psychological  standpoint,  sensation  is  the 
datum  of  the  aesthetic  experience,  the  first  thing  there, 
while  its  power  to  express  depends  upon  a  further 
process  which  links  it  up  with  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings. We  must  inquire,  therefore,  how  this  linkage 
takes  place  —  how,  for  example,  it  comes  about  that 
the  colors  of  a  painting  are  something  more  than  mere 
colors,  being,  in  addition,  embodiments  of  trees  and 
sky  and  foliage,  and  of  liveliness  and  gayety  and  other 
feelings  appropriate  to  a  spring  landscape.  Let  us  con- 
sider the  linkage  with  feeling  first. 

There  are  two  characteristics  of  aesthetic  feeling  in 
its  relation  to  sensations  and  ideas  which  must  be 
taken  into  account  in  any  explanation;  its  objectifi- 
cation  in  them  and  the  universality  of  this  connection. 
Expression  is  embodiment.  We  find  gayety  in  the  colors 
of  the  painting,  joy  in  the  musical  tones,  happiness  in 
the  pictured  face,  tenderness  in  the  sculptured  pose. 
We  hear  the  feeling  in  the  sounds  and  see  it  in  the  lines 
and  colors.  The  happiness  seems  to  belong  to  the 
face,  the  joy  to  the  tones,  in  the  same  simple  and 
direct  fashion  as  the  shape  of  the  one  or  the  pitch  of 
the  others.  The  feelings  have  become  true  attributes. 
It  is  only  by  analysis  that  we  pick  them  out,  separate 


60  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

them  from  the  other  elements  of  idea  or  sensation  in 
the  whole,  and  then,  for  the  purpose  of  scientific 
explanation,  inquire  how  they  came  to  be  connected. 
And  this  connection  is  not  one  that  depends  upon  the 
accidents  of  personal  experience.  It  is  not,  for  example, 
like  the  emotional  significance  that  the  sound  of  the 
voice  of  the  loved  one  has  for  the  lover,  which  even  he 
may  some  day  cease  to  feel,  and  which  other  men  do 
not  feel  at  all.  It  is  rather  typified  by  the  emotional 
value  of  a  melody,  which,  through  psychological 
processes  common  to  all  men,  becomes  a  universal 
language  of  feeling.  The  work  of  art  is  a  communi- 
cable, not  a  private  expression. 

As  we  have  observed,  the  elements  of  feeling  in  the 
aesthetic  experience  are  of  two  broad  kinds  —  either 
vague,  when  directly  linked  with  the  sensuous  medium, 
or  else  definite,  when  this  linkage  is  mediated  by  ideas 
through  which  the  medium  is  given  content  and  mean- 
ing. The  former  kind,  which  I  shall  consider  first, 
comprises  all  cases  of  the  emotional  expressiveness  of 
the  medium  itself,  —  of  tones  and  word-sounds  and 
their  rhythms  and  patterns,  of  colors  and  lines  and 
space-forms  and  their  designs.  The  detailed  study  of 
this  expressiveness  I  shall  leave  to  the  chapters  on 
the  arts ;  here  I  wish  merely  to  indicate  the  kind  of 
psychological  process  involved. 

In  many  cases  the  psychological  principle  of  asso- 
ciation operates.  The  tender  expressiveness  of  certain 
curved  lines,  like  those  of  the  Greek  amphora,  for 
example,  is  due,  partially  at  least,  to  association  with 
lines  of  the  human  body,  with  which  normally  this 
feeling  is  associated.  The  associated  object,  together 


The  Elements  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     61 

with  its  feeling  tone,  are  sufficiently  common  to  the 
experience  of  all  men  to  account  for  the  universality 
of  the  emotion,  and  the  isolation  of  the  stimulus 
—  abstract  line  —  from  its  usual  context  of  color  and 
bulk  accounts  for  the  vagueness.  Sometimes,  on  the 
other  hand,  expressiveness  seems  to  be  due  to  a  direct 
psychological  relation  between  the  sense-stimulus  and 
the  emotion.  This  is  almost  certainly  the  case  with 
rhythms,  and,  as  I  shall  argue  in  the  chapters  on  paint- 
ing and  music,  is  at  least  partially  true  of  colors  and 
tones.  The  expressiveness  is  at  once  too  immediate 
and  too  universal  to  depend  upon  association  with 
definite  things  and  events,  or  personal,  emotional 
crises.  A  rhythm,  for  example,  may  be  exciting  the 
first  time  it  is  heard ;  one  does  not  have  to  wait  to  hear 
it  at  a  battle-charge ;  a  melody  may  be  sad  even  when 
one  has  never  heard  it  sung  by  chance  at  parting. 
Of  course  the  fact  that  associations  are  not  remembered 
is  no  proof  that  they  do  not  operate ;  but  it  is  difficult 
to  conceive  of  any  which  could  operate  in  these  cases. 
For  this  reason,  I  think,  we  must  suppose  that  certain 
sense-stimuli  and  combinations  of  stimuli  not  only 
produce  in  the  sensory  areas  of  the  brain  the  appro- 
priate sensations,  but  that  their  effects  are  prolonged, 
overflowing  into  the  motor  channels  and  there  causing 
a  total  reaction  of  the  organism,  the  conscious  aspect 
of  which  is  a  vague  feeling.  The  organic  resonance  is 
too  slight  and  diffuse  to  produce  a  true  emotion ; 
hence  only  a  mood  results. 

In  all  the  representative  arts  the  vague  expressive- 
ness of  the  medium  is  reenforced  through  emotions 
aroused  by  ideas  which  interpret  sensation  as  an  element 


62  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

of  a  thing.  The  green  in  the  painting  is  not  only  green, 
but  green  of  the  sea ;  the  red  is  not  only  red,  but  red  of 
the  sky ;  the  curved  line  is  not  a  mere  curve,  it  is  the 
outline  of  a  wave.  The  totality  of  colors  and  lines  is 
not  a  mere  color  and  line  composition,  but  a  marine 
landscape.  The  feeling  tones  of  the  elements  of  this 
complex  and  of  the  complex  itself  are  not  only  those 
of  the  colors  and  lines  as  such,  but  of  the  interpretative 
ideas  as  well ;  which  in  turn  are  the  same  as  those  of  the 
corresponding  real  things.  The  psychological  process 
is  here  simple  enough.  The  feeling  tone  of  the  sea  is 
carried  by  the  idea  of  the  sea,  which  now  fuses  with  the 
green  color  and  wavy  lines  of  the  painting. 

But  in  order  fully  to  explain  the  phenomena  of 
aesthetic  expression,  it  is  not  sufficient  to  show  how  the 
connection  between  feeling  and  sensation  and  idea 
takes  place ;  it  is  necessary,  in  addition,  to  explain  the 
nature  of  this  connection.  The  feeling  is  not  expe- 
rienced by  us  as  what  it  is  —  our  reaction  to  the 
sensations  or  represented  objects  —  but  rather  as  an 
objective  quality  of  them.  The  sounds  are  sad,  the 
curve  tender,  the  sea  placid  and  reposeful.  Why  is 
this? 

The  explanation  is,  I  think,  as  follows.  Despite 
their  usual  subjectivity,  feelings  tend  to  be  located  in 
the  objective  world  whenever  they  are  in  conflict  with 
or  not  directly  rooted  in  the  personal  life  or  character 
of  the  individual.  In  listening  to  music,  for  example, 
feelings  of  despair  and  terror  may  be  aroused  in  me 
who  am  perhaps  secure  and  happy ;  and  even  if  the 
feelings  are  joyous,  they  are  not  occasioned  by  any 
piece  of  personal  good  fortune  —  my  situation  in  life 


The  Elements  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     63 

is  the  same  now  as  before.  Hence,  finding  no  lodgment 
in  the  ego,  and  having  to  exist  somewhere,  they  seek  a 
domicile  in  the  sounds  evoking  them.  And,  in  general, 
works  of  art  arouse  but  offer  no  personal  occasions  for 
feeling,  and  therefore  absorb  it  into  themselves. 

The  process  of  objectification  may,  however,  go 
further.  It  often  happens  in  the  aesthetic  experience 
that  feelings  are  not  objectified  alone,  but  carry  with 
them  the  idea  of  the  self  —  I  come  to  feel  myself 
as  joyous  or  despairing  in  the  sounds.  The  extent  to 
which  the  idea  of  the  self  thus  follows  the  objectified 
feelings  depends  largely  upon  the  amount  of  their 
reverberation  throughout  the  organism.  When  this 
is  small,  and  the  feelings  are  vague  and  tenuous,  as  in 
color  appreciation,  there  is  little  or  no  definite  pro- 
jection of  the  idea  of  the  self ;  when,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  is  large  and  the  emotions  are  strong,  as  oftentimes  in 
music,  where  breathing,  circulation,  hand  and  foot 
are  affected,  then  I  myself  seem  to  be  there,  —  striving, 
pursuing,  struggling,  in  the  sounds.  I  am  where  my 
body  is.  The  projection  of  the  idea  of  the  self  is 
facilitated  for  the  same  reason  when  the  body  is  actually 
employed  in  the  creation  of  the  work  of  art,  as  in  singing 
and  acting.  It  also  occurs  more  readily  when  the  life 
expressed  in  the  work  of  art  is  akin  to  the  spectator's. 
Thus,  an  emotional  and  suggestible  woman,  in  watching 
a  fine  performance  of  "Magda,"  inevitably  puts  herself 
in  the  place  of  the  heroine  if  she  has  herself  lived 
through  a  similar  experience.  But  when  the  life  ex- 
pressed is  strikingly  foreign  to  our  own,  the  projection 
of  the  idea  of  self  is  more  difficult ;  the  duality  between 
subject  and  object  tends  to  remain. 


64  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

These  phenomena  have  excited  special  attention 
when,  as  in  painting  and  sculpture  and  the  drama,  a 
human  being  is  represented.  Suppose,  for  example,  I 
see  a  statue  of  a  runner  ready  to  start.  I  not  only  see 
the  form  and  color  of  the  marble  and  recognize  them 
as  a  man's ;  I  also  feel  emotions  of  excitement,  tension, 
and  expectation  such  as  I  should  myself  feel  were  I 
too  posed  and  waiting  to  run  a  race.  And  these 
emotions  I  experience  as  the  man's,  and  as  his,  not  in 
a  vague  way,  but  as  definitely  present  in  his  sculptured 
form,  even  in  particular  parts  of  it,  —  in  the  swelling 
chest  and  tightened  limbs.  Or  consider  another  case. 
Suppose  I  see  Franz  Hals'  "Laughing  Cavalier."  I 
feel  jollity  in  the  face,  as  the  cavalier's.  Yet  in  both 
cases  I  may  feel  the  emotions  as  also  my  own  —  as  if  I 
too  were  about  to  run  or  were  laughing.  And  the 
projection  of  the  idea  of  the  self  will  occur  most  readily 
if  I  am  myself  a  runner  or  a  jolly  person.  In  both 
instances,  moreover,  the  process  will  be  mediated  by 
impulses  to  movements  that  are  the  normal  accompani- 
ments of  the  emotions  in  question.  If  I  observe  myself 
carefully,  I  may  find  that  my  own  chest  is  tending  to 
swell  and  my  own  limbs  to  tighten,  in  imitation  of  the 
runner's,  or  my  own  pupils  to  dilate  and  the  muscles 
of  my  face  to  wrinkle  and  to  part,  in  imitation  of 
the  Dutchman's.  And  these  movement-impulses  I 
objectify.  I  not  only  see  jollity  in  the  face,  but 
laughter  as  well;  in  the  statue,  not  only  excitement, 
but  running.  And  again  —  where  my  body  is,  there 
am  I ;  so  I  am  jolly  with  the  cavalier  and  excited  with 
the  runner.  The  psychology  of  this  process  is  simple 
enough.  In  my  experience  there  is  a  plain  connection 


The  Elements  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     65 

between  the  sight  of  a  movement  and  sensations 
attendant  upon  movement,  and  further,  a  connection 
between  some  of  these  movements,  namely,  the 
expressive  movements,  and  the  emotions  which  they 
express.  In  accordance  with  the  law  of  association 
by  contiguity,  whenever  any  one  of  several  mental 
elements  usually  connected  together  is  present  in  the 
mind,  the  others  tend  to  arise  also.  So  here.  Seeing 
the  semblance  of  tight  muscles  and  a  smiling  face,  I 
feel  the  emotions  which  have  these  visual  associates, 
experience  the  correlated  movement-sensations,  and 
project  them  all  into  the  object  which  initiated  the 
process. 

In  recent  years,  a  great  deal  has  been  made  of  these 
movement-sensations  in  explaining  aesthetic  feeling.1 
Yet  in  the  case  of  all  people  who  are  not  strongly  of  the 
motor  type,  people  in  whose  mental  make-up  movement 
plays  a  minor  part  in  comparison  with  vision  and  other 
sensations,  they  play  a  secondary  role,  or  even  hardly 
any  role  at  all.  Most  spectators,  indeed,  instead  of 
actually  making  slight  movements  imitative  of  the 
movements  seen  or  represented,  and  experiencing  the 
corresponding  sensations,  make  no  movements  at  all 
and  simply  experience  movement  images ;  this  sub- 
stitution of  image  for  movement  probably  occurs  in 
the  minds  of  all  except  the  most  imitative.  Most 
people,  even  of  the  motor  type,  do  not  smile  when  they 
see  the  "Laughing  Cavalier"  or  start  to  run  when  they 
see  the  statue  of  the  runner ;  careful  observation  of 
themselves  would  disclose  only  faint  movement  images 
which  seem  to  play  about  their  lips  or  limbs  —  mere 

1  See  the  discussions  in  Lee  arid  Thompson :  Beauty  and  Uglineis. 


66  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

images  of  movement  have  supplanted  movements. 
And  many  visualists  would  not  find  any  images  at 
all.  However,  although  the  mistake  has  been  com- 
mitted by  some  investigators  of  supposing  that  every- 
body experiences  movement  because  they  themselves, 
being  of  the  motor  type,  do,  it  cannot  be  denied,  I 
think,  that  such  people  attain  to  a  vividness  of  aesthetic 
living  not  reached  by  others.  They  appreciate  beauty 
with  their  bodies  as  well  as  with  their  souls.  And  in 
their  case  too,  as  has  been  shown,  aesthetic  appre- 
ciation is  more  strongly  histrionic  —  they  not  only  put 
themselves  into  the  work  of  art,  but  the  idea  of  them- 
selves as  well. 

Following  the  German  school  of  einfuehlung,  I 
have  insisted  throughout  this  discussion  on  the  im- 
portance of  feeling  in  the  aesthetic  experience;  yet  I 
do  not  think  the  voice  of  those  people  can  be  neglected 
who  claim  that  their  experience  with  works  of  art  is  of 
slight  or  no  emotional  intensity.  There  are  people 
who  would  report  that  they  feel  no  jollity  when  they  see 
the  "Laughing  Cavalier,"  or  anguish  when  they  read 
the  Ugolino  Canto  in  the  Inferno;  yet  such  people 
often  have  a  highly  developed  aesthetic  taste.  How  can 
this  difference  be  accounted  for? 

Starting  with  the  emotional  appreciation  of  art  as 
primary,  we  can  account  for  it  in  this  wise.  It  is  a 
familiar  phenomenon  in  the  mental  life  for  a  concept 
or  idea  of  an  emotional  experience  to  take  the  place  of 
that  experience.  What  man  has  not  rejoiced  when  the 
simple  and  cold  judgment,  "I  suffered  then,"  has  come 
to  supplant  a  recurring  torment?  Or  who  that  has 
lived  constantly  with  a  sick  person  has  not  observed 


The  Elements  of  the  ./Esthetic  Experience     67 

how,  looking  on  the  face  of  pain,  inevitably  the  mere 
comment,  "he  is  in  distress,"  comes  to  supplant  the 
liveliest  sympathetic  thrill?  There  are  many  reasons 
for  this.  The  idea  or  judgment  is  a  less  taxing  thing 
than  an  emotion,  and  so  is  substituted  for  it  in  the 
mind,  which  everywhere  seeks  economy  of  effort.  The 
idea  is  also  more  efficient  from  a  practical  point  of 
view,  because  it  leads  directly  to  action  and  does  not 
divert  and  waste  energy  in  diffused  and  useless  move- 
ments. The  physician  simply  recognizes  the  states  of 
mind  of  his  patients,  he  does  not  sympathize  with 
them.  Finally  our  own  reactions  to  an  objectified 
emotion  may  interfere  with  the  emotion.  If,  for 
example,  we  see  an  angry  man,  our  own  fear  of  him 
may  entirely  supplant  our  sympathetic  feeling  of  his 
anger.  In  general,  in  our  dealings  with  our  fellow 
men,  we  are  too  busy  with  our  attitudes  and  plans  with 
reference  to  them,  and  too  much  concerned  with 
economizing  our  emotional  energy,  to  get  a  sympathetic 
intuition  of  their  inner  life,  and  so  are  content  with  an 
intellectual  recognition  of  it.  Now  this  habit  of  sub- 
stituting the  more  rapid  and  economical  process  of 
judgment  for  the  longer  and  more  taxing  one  of  sym- 
pathy, is  carried  over  into  the  world  of  art. 

Nevertheless,  the  world  of  art  is  a  region  especially 
fitted  for  einfuehlung.  For  there  the  need  for  quick 
action,  which  in  life  tends  to  syncopate  emotion,  does 
not  exist.  The  characteristic  attitude  of  art  is  lei- 
surely absorption  in  an  object,  giving  time  for  all  the 
possibilities  of  feeling  or  other  experience  to  develop. 
Moreover,  in  art  there  is  not  the  same  saving  need 
for  the  substitution  of  idea  for  feeling  as  in  real  life. 


68  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

For  in  art,  feeling  is  not  so  strong  as  in  life ;  even  when 
the  artist  expresses  his  own  personal  experience,  he 
lightens  its  emotional  burden  through  expression,  and 
we,  when  we  make  his  experience  ours,  find  a  similar 
relief.  The  emotion  is  genuine,  only  weakened  in 
intensity.  In  other  cases,  where  the  artist  constructs 
a  world  of  fictitious  characters  and  events,  our  knowl- 
edge that  they  are  not  real  suffices  to  diminish  the 
intensity  of  the  emotions  aroused.  For  emotions  have 
the  practical  function  of  inciting  to  action,  and  when 
action  is  impossible,  as  in  the  purely  ideal  world  of  the 
artist,  they  cannot  keep  their  natural  intensity.  We 
cannot  feel  so  strongly  over  the  mere  idea  of  an 
event  as  over  a  real  event.  Were  it  otherwise,  who 
could  stand  the  strain  of  Hamlet  or  Othello? 

Throughout  this  discussion  of  the  elements  of  the 
experience  of  art,  I  have  used  the  terms  emotion  and 
feeling  with  an  inclusive  meaning,  to  cover  impulses 
as  well  as  feelings  in  the  narrower  sense.  For  in  the 
aesthetic  experience,  there  are  impulses  —  impulses  to 
move  when  action  is  represented  in  picture  and  statue, 
impulses  to  act,  as  when,  in  watching  a  play,  we  put 
ourselves  in  the  place  of  the  persons.  But  such  im- 
pulses are  always  checked  through  the  realization  that 
they  come  from  sources  unrelated  to  our  purposes, 
and  fail  to  get  the  reenforcement  or  consent  of  the 
total  self  necessary  to  action.  In  reading  or  singing 
the  "Marseillaise,"  to  cite  an  example  from  poetry,  I 
experience  all  kinds  of  impulses  —  to  shoulder  a  musket, 
to  march,  to  kill  —  but  no  one  of  them  is  carried  out. 
Now  an  inhibited  impulse  is  scarcely  distinguishable 
from  an  emotion.  With  few  exceptions,  the  impulses 


The  Elements  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     69 

in  art  do  not  issue  in  resolves,  decisions,  determinations 
to  act ;  or,  if  they  do,  the  determinations  refer  to  acts 
to  be  executed  in  the  future,  in  an  experience  distinct 
and  remote  from  the  aesthetic  —  the  "Marseillaise" 
has  doubtless  produced  such  resolutions  in  the  minds 
of  Frenchmen ;  and  there  is  much  art  that  is  productive 
in  that  way,  providing  the  "birth  in  beauty"  of  which 
Plato  wrote.1  In  art,  impulses  result  in  immediate 
action  only  when  action  is  itself  the  medium  of  expres- 
sion, as  in  the  dance,  where  impulses  to  movement 
pass  over  into  motion.  Of  course  such  actions  still 
remain  aesthetic  since  they  serve  no  practical  end  and 
are  valued  for  themselves. 

If  the  question  were  raised,  which  is  more  funda- 
mental in  the  aesthetic  experience,  idea  or  emotion? 
the  answer  would  have  to  be,  emotion.  For  there  exists 
at  least  one  great  art  where  no  explicit  ideas  are  present, 
music,  whereas  art  without  emotion  does  not  exist. 
Take  away  the  emotional  content  from  expression  and 
you  get  either  a  mere  play  of  sensations,  like  fireworks. 
or  else  pseudo-science,  like  the  modern  naturalistic 
play.  However,  the  supreme  importance  of  the  idea 
in  art  cannot  be  denied.  Every  complex  work  of  art, 
save  music,  is  an  expression  of  ideas  as  well  as  of  feelings, 
and  even  in  music  there  exists  the  tendency  for  feeling 
to  seek  definition  in  ideas  —  do  we  not  say  a  musical 
idea?  And  do  we  not  find  the  masters  of  so  abstract 
an  art  as  ornament  employing  their  materials  to 
represent  symbolic  conceptions?  I  wish  to  call  the 
attention  of  the  reader  to  certain  very  general  consider- 
ations touching  the  nature  and  function  of  ideas  in  the 

1  In  the  Symposium. 


70  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

aesthetic  experience,  leaving  the  study  of  the  concrete 
problems  to  the  more  special  chapters. 

First,  the  relation  of  the  idea  to  the  sense  medium  of 
the  expression.  Here,  I  think,  we  find  something  com- 
parable to  the  process  of  einfuehlung.  For  in  art,  ideas, 
like  feelings,  are  objectified  in  sensation.  Only  sensa- 
tions are  given;  out  of  the  mind  come  ideas  through 
which  the  former  are  interpreted  and  made  into  the 
semblance  of  things.  Consider,  for  example,  Rem- 
brandt's "Night- Watch."  A  festal  mood  is  there  in 
the  golds  and  reds,  and  gloom  in  the  blacks ;  but  there 
also  are  the  men  and  drums  and  arms.  If  we  wished 
to  push  the  analogy  with  einfuehlung,  we  might  coin 
a  corresponding  term  —  einmeinung,  "inmeaning." 
In  all  the  representative  arts,  this  is  a  process  of 
equal  importance  with  infeeling;  for  the  artist  strives 
just  as  much  to  realize  his  ideas  of  objects  in  the  sense 
material  of  his  art  as  to  put  his  moods  there. 

When,  moreover,  we  consider  that  the  expression  of 
the  more  complex  and  definite  emotions  is  dependent 
upon  the  expression  of  ideas  of  nature  and  human  life, 
we  see  that  the  process  is  really  a  single  one.  Feeling 
is  a  function  of  ideas ;  if,  then,  we  demand  sincerity  in 
the  one,  we  must  equally  demand  conviction  in  the 
other.  The  poet  could  not  convey  to  us  his  pleasure 
at  the  sight  of  nature  or  his  awe  of  death  unless  he 
could  somehow  bring  us  into  their  presence.  The 
painter  could  not  express  the  moods  of  sunlight  or  of 
shadow  until  he  had  invented  a  technique  for  their 
representation.  Clear  and  confident  seeing  is  a  condi- 
tion of  feeling.  Hence  every  advance  in  the  imitation 
of  nature  is  an  advance  in  the  power  of  expression. 


The  Elements  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience    71 

The  demand  for  fidelity  of  representation,  for  "truth 
to  nature,"  so  insistently  made  by  the  common  man 
in  his  criticism  of  art,  is  justified  even  from  the  point 
of  view  of  expressionism. 

Yet  this  fidelity  of  representation  does  not  involve 
exact  reproduction  of  nature.  The  limitations  of  the 
media  of  the  arts  definitely  exclude  this.  No  painter 
can  reproduce  on  a  canvas  the  infinite  detail  of  any 
object  or  exactly  imitate  its  colors  and  lines.  In  the 
single  matter  of  brightness,  for  example,  his  medium 
is  hopelessly  inadequate;  even  the  light  of  the  moon 
is  beyond  his  power,  not  to  speak  of  the  light  of  the 
sun ;  he  has  to  substitute  a  relative  for  an  absolute 
scale  of  values.  The  sculptor  cannot  reproduce  the 
color  or  hair  of  the  human  body.  However,  this 
failure  exactly  to  imitate  nature  does  not  prevent  the 
artist  from  suggesting  to  us  ideas  of  the  objects  in 
which  he  is  interested.  If  the  outline  of  the  marble 
be  that  of  a  man,  we  get  the  idea  of  a  man;  if  the 
color  and  shape  be  that  of  a  tree,  we  get  the  idea  of  a 
tree.  Our  acceptance  of  these  ideas  is,  of  course,  only 
partial ;  for  we  are  equally  susceptible  to  the  negative 
suggestions  of  the  whiteness  of  the  marble  and  the 
smallness  of  the  outline  of  the  tree.  Every  work  of 
art  represents  a  sort  of  compromise  between  reality  and 
unreality,  belief  and  disbelief. 

Nevertheless,  despite  this  compromise,  the  purpose 
of  art  is  uncompromisingly  attained.  For  art  does  not 
seek  to  give  us  nature  over  again,  but  to  express  its 
feeling  tones,  and  these  are  conveyed  when  we  get 
an  idea  of  the  corresponding  object,  even  if  that  idea 
is  inadequate  from  a  strictly  scientific  point  of  view. 


72  The  Principles  of  Esthetics 

We  do  not  react  emotionally  to  the  infinite  detail  of 
any  object,  but  only  to  its  presence  as  a  whole  and  to 
certain  salient  features.  The  artist  succeeds  when  he 
constructs  a  humanized  image  of  the  object  —  one 
which  arouses  and  becomes  a  center  for  feeling.  This 
image,  when  made  of  a  few  elements,  may  be  far 
more  telling  than  a  much  more  accurate  copy;  for 
there  is  no  diffusion  of  interest  to  irrelevant  aspects. 
How  effective  a  medium  for  expression  are  the  few 
and  simple  lines  of  Beardsley's  draftsmanship !  The 
amount  of  detail  necessary  to  convey  an  emotionally 
effective  idea  is  relative  to  the  technique  of  the  differ- 
ent arts  and  varies  also  with  the  suggestibility  and 
discrimination  of  the  observer.  Here  no  a  priori 
principles  can  be  laid  down  for  what  only  the  experi- 
mental practice  of  the  artist  can  determine. 

Moreover,  the  negative  suggestions  of  a  work  of  art, 
although  they  are  effective  in  preventing  entire  belief 
in  the  reality  of  the  idea  expressed,  do  not  hinder  the 
communication  and  appreciation  of  the  attached 
feelings.  Just  so  long  as  the  belief  attitude  is  not 
wholly  extinguished,  this  is  the  case;  and  the  skillful 
artist  takes  care  of  that.  Of  course,  an  attitude  of 
self-surrender,  of  willingness  to  accept  suggestions, 
has  to  be  present  and  we  cooperate  with  the  artist  in 
creating  it.  ^Esthetic  belief  implies  sufficient  abandon 
that  we  may  react  emotionally  to  a  suggestion,  but 
not  enough  that  we  may  react  practically.  We  let  the 
idea  tell  upon  our  feelings;  we  do  not  let  it  incite  us 
to  action.  The  aesthetic  plausibility  of  an  idea  depends 
largely  upon  its  initial  plausibility  with  the  artist. 
There  is  nothing  more  contagious  than  belief.  To 


The  Elements  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     73 

utter  things  with  an  accent  of  conviction  is  half  the 
battle  in  getting  oneself  believed.  If  the  artist  pretends 
to  believe  something  and  expresses  himself  with  an  air 
of  assurance,  we  accept  it,  no  matter  how  preposterous 
it  may  be  from  the  practical  or  scientific  point  of 
view.  Think  of  Rabelais! 

A  work  of  art  is  a  logical  system.  It  presupposes 
certain  assumptions,  postulates,  conventions,  which  we 
must  accept  if  we  are  to  live  in  its  world.  Now,  in 
order  that  we  may  accept  them,  the  artist  must  first 
have  vividly  accepted  them  himself.  Only  if  they  have 
become  a  very  part  of  him,  can  they  become  at  all  valid 
for  us.  The  failure  of  classicistic  art  in  a  non-classical 
age,  of  "  Pre-Raphaelitism "  after  Raphael,  is  a  failure 
in  this  —  the  artist  has  never  lived  even  imaginatively 
in  the  world  he  depicts.  His  belief  is  an  artifice  and  a 
sham,  and  he  cannot  impose  upon  us  with  his  pretense. 
But  once  we  have  accepted  the  artist's  postulates, 
then  we  are  prepared  to  follow  him  in  his  conclusions. 
In  the  Homeric  world,  we  shall  not  balk  at  the  inter- 
course between  gods  and  men;  in  mediaeval  paint- 
ing and  drama,  we  shall  accept  miracle ;  in  Alice  in 
Wonderland,  we  shall  accept  any  dream-like  enchant- 
ment. But  we  demand  that  the  conclusions  shall 
follow  from  the  premises,  that  the  whole  be  consistent. 
We  cannot  tolerate  miracle  in  a  realistic  novel  or 
drama,  or  glaring  inaccuracy  of  fact  in  a  historical 
novel,  because  they  are  in  contradiction  to  the  laws  of 
reality  tacitly  assumed.  The  final  demand  which  we 
make  of  any  work  of  art  is  that  it  live.  What  can 
be  made  to  live  for  us  may  be  beautiful  to  us.  But 
nothing  can  draw  our  life  into  itself  which  has  not 


74  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

drawn  the  artist's,  or  which  is  untrue  to  its  own  inner 
logic. 

One  of  the  most  life-creating  elements  of  a  work  of 
art  is  imagery.  Everywhere  in  art  the  tendency  exists 
for  ideas  to  be  filled  out,  rendered  concrete  and  vivid, 
through  images.  In  looking  at  a  painting  of  a  summer 
landscape,  for  example,  we  not  only  recognize  the  colors 
as  meaning  sunlight,  but  actually  experience  them  as 
warm;  in  looking  at  a  statue  we  not  only  recognize 
its  surface  as  that  of  the  body  of  a  woman,  but  we 
feel  its  softness  and  smoothness;  which  involves  that 
the  ideas  of  sunlight  and  a  human  body,  employed  in 
interpreting  the  sensations  received  from  these  works 
of  art,  are  developed  back  into  the  original  mass  of 
images  from  which  they  were  derived.  However, 
although  ideas  are  formed  from  images,  they  are  not 
images,  —  as  our  ordinary  employment  of  them  in 
recognizing  objects  attests.  We  may  and  usually  do, 
for  example,  recognize  a  mirror  as  smooth  without 
experiencing  it  as  smooth  —  the  image  equivalent 
of  the  idea  remains  latent.  Our  ordinary  experience 
with  objects  is  too  hasty  and  too  intent  on  practical 
ends  for  images  to  develop.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
leisurely  attitude  characteristic  of  the  aesthetic  expe- 
rience is  favorable  to  the  recall  of  images  ;  hence,  just  as 
in  the  aesthetic  perception  of  objects  we  put  our  feelings 
into  them,  so  equally  we  import  into  them  the  relevant 
images.  The  aesthetic  reaction  tends  to  be  total.  Our 
demand  for  feeling  in  art  also  requires  the  image; 
for  feelings  are  more  vividly  attached  to  images  than 
to  abstract  ideas.  It  is  a  fact  familiar  in  the  experience 
of  everybody  that  the  strength  of  the  emotional  tone 


The  Elements  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     75 

of  an  object  is  a  function  of  the  clearness  of  the  image 
which  we  form  of  it  on  recall.  We  can  preserve  the 
feeling  tone  of  a  past  event  or  an  absent  object  only 
if  we  can  keep  a  vivid  image  of  it ;  as  our  image  of  it 
becomes  vague,  our  interest  in  it  dissipates.  Every- 
where in  our  experience  the  image  mediates  between 
feeling  and  idea.  So  in  art.  Images  have  no  more 
an  independent  and  self-sufficient  status  in  art  than 
sensations  have ;  like  the  latter  they  are  a  means  for  the 
expression  of  feeling.  In  the  painting  of  sunlight,  for 
example,  the  images  of  warmth  carry  joyousness  and  a 
sense  of  ease ;  in  the  statue,  the  tactile  images  convey 
the  emotional  response  to  the  represented  object.  In 
literature  the  expressiveness  of  images  is  perhaps  even 
more  impressive.  Consider  how  longing  is  aroused  by 
the  tactile,  gustatory,  and  thermal  images  in  the  oft- 
quoted  lines  of  Keats  : — 

O,  for  a  draught  of  vintage !  that  hath  been 
Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth. 

Examples  might  be  multiplied  indefinitely. 

In  literature  alone  of  the  arts,  images  from  all  depart- 
ments of  sense  can  be  aroused.  Visual  images  play  a 
greater  role  there  than  in  painting  and  sculpture,  for 
the  reason  that,  in  the  latter,  visual  sensations  take 
their  place  —  we  do  not  image  what  we  can  see.  In 
sculpture,  the  greater  part  of  the  imagery  is  of  touch 
and  motion  —  in  the  imagination,  we  feel  the  surfaces 
and  move  with  the  represented  motions ;  the  whiteness 
or  blackness  of  the  materials  prevents  the  arousal  of 
the  image  of  the  color  of  the  body.  In  painting,  besides 
the  temperature  images  already  mentioned,  there  are 


76  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

touch  images  —  in  still-life,  for  example,  when  silks 
and  furs  are  represented;  images  of  odors,  in  flower 
pieces ;  of  motion,  in  pictures  which  depict  motion,  as  in 
the  racing  horses  of  Degas ;  of  taste,  in  pictures  of  wine 
and  fruit.  Of  course  the  kind  and  amount  of  imagery 
depend  upon  the  imaginal  type  to  which  the  spectator 
belongs  and  the  wealth  of  the  imaginal  furnishing  of 
his  mind.  In  any  art,  moreover,  the  chief  and  requisite 
thing  is  expression  through  the  sense  medium,  which 
should  never  be  obscured  by  expression  through  asso- 
ciated images.  It  is  not  the  primary  business  of  a  flower 
painter  to  arouse  images  of  perfume,  but  to  compose 
colors  and  lines;  nor  the  function  of  the  musician  to 
arouse  the  visual  images  which  accompany  the  musical 
experience  of  many  people,  but  to  compose  sounds.  In 
sculpture,  on  the  other  hand,  images  of  touch  and 
movement  play  an  almost  necessary  part,  for  they  are 
constituent  elements  in  the  representation  of  form 
and  motion;  yet  it  is  not  indispensable  to  the  appre- 
ciation of  sculpture  that  images  of  the  sweet  odor  of 
the  human  body  be  awakened.  The  image  is  seldom 
the  basis  of  aesthetic  appreciation ;  it  is  more  often  its 
completion.  But  we  shall  go  into  these  matters  more 
in  detail  in  our  special  chapters. 

In  the  representative  arts,  particularly  painting  and 
sculpture,  the  associated  images  are  fused  with  the 
visual  sensations  which  constitute  the  medium.  I  see 
the  softness  and  sweet-odorousness  of  the  painted  rose 
petal,  just  as  I  see  the  real  rose  soft  and  sweet;  I  see 
the  surface  of  the  statue  firm  and  shapely,  just  as  I  see 
the  human  body  so.  This  is  because  the  ideas  of  the 
things  represented  in  painting  and  sculpture  seem  to 


The  Elements  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience    77 

be  actually  present  in  the  visual  sensations  which  they 
interpret;  the  flower  and  the  man  seem  to  be  there 
before  me.  In  these  arts,  aesthetic  perception  is  a 
fusion  of  image  with  sensation  in  much  the  way  that 
normal  perception  is.  In  literature  and  music,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  connection  between  the  sense  medium 
of  the  art  and  the  associated  images  is  less  close;  and 
for  the  reason  that  the  sounds  are  no  part  of  the  things 
which  they  bring  before  the  mind.  In  looking  at  a 
picture  of  a  rose,  I  see  the  red  as  an  element  of  the  rose 
represented ;  whereas,  in  reading  about  a  rose,  I  only 
seem  to  hear  a  voice  describing  it.  In  the  latter  case, 
therefore,  the  olfactory  and  visual  images  have  a  certain 
remoteness  and  independence  of  the  word-sounds;  I 
do  not  actually. see  and  smell  them  in  the  sounds. 
However,  in  the  case  of  familiar  words  with  a  strong 
emotional  significance,  the  fusion  of  image  with  sound 
may  be  almost  complete.  Who,  for  example,  does  not 
see  a  sweet  and  red  image  of  a  rose  into  the  word- 
sounds  when  he  reads  :  — 

Oh,  my  luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June. 

Or,  when  Dante  describes  the  selva  oscura,  who  does 
not  see  the  darkness  in  the  word  oscura  ?  In  all  such 
cases  a  strong  feeling  tone  binds  together  the  word- 
sound  with  the  image.  This  fusion  is  most  striking  in 
poetry  because  of  the  highly  emotional  material  with 
which  it  works. 

The  ideas  and  images  associated  with  a  work  of  art 
depend  very  largely  on  the  education,  experience,  and 
idiosyncrasy  of  the  spectator.  The  scholar,  for  example, 


78  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

will  put  tenfold  more  meaning  into  his  reading  of  the 
Divine  Comedy  than  the  untrained  person.  Or  com- 
pare Pater's  interpretation  of  the  "Mona  Lisa"  with 
Muther's.  Can  we  say  that  certain  ideas  and  images 
belong  properly  to  the  work  of  art,  while  others  do 
not  ?  With  regard  to  this,  we  can,  I  think,  set  up  two 
criteria.  First,  the  intention  of  the  artist  —  what- 
ever the  artist  meant  his  work  to  express :  that  it 
expresses.  Yet,  since  this  can  never  be  certainly  and 
completely  discovered,  there  must  always  remain  a 
large  region  of  undetermined  interpretation.  Now  for 
judging  the  relevancy  of  this  penumbra  of  meaning 
and  association  the  following  test  applies  —  does  it 
bring  us  back  to  the  sensuous  medium  of  the  work  of 
art  or  lead  us  away  ?  Anything  is  legitimate  which  we 
actually  put  into  the  form  of  the  work  of  art  and  keep 
there,  while  whatever  merely  hangs  loose  around  it  is 
illegitimate.  For  example,  if  while  listening  to  music 
we  give  ourselves  up  to  personal  memories  and  fancies, 
we  are  almost  sure  to  neglect  the  sounds  and  their 
structure;  we  cannot  objectify  the  former  in  the 
latter ;  with  the  result  that  the  composition  is  largely 
lost  to  us.  Naturally,  no  hard  and  fast  lines  can  be 
drawn,  especially  in  the  case  of  works  of  vague  import 
like  music ;  yet  we  can  use  this  criterion  as  a  princi- 
ple for  regulating  and  inhibiting  our  associations.  It 
demands  of  us  a  wide-awake  and  receptive  apprecia- 
tion. The  genuine  meanings  and  associations  of  a 
work  of  art  are  those  which  are  the  irresistible  and 
necessary  results  of  the  sense  stimuli  working  upon  an 
attentive  percipient;  the  rest  are  not  only  arbitrary, 
but  injurious. 


The  Elements  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     79 

To  this,  some  people  would  doubtless  object  on  the 
ground  that  art  was  made  for  man  and  not  man  for 
art.  The  work  of  art,  they  would  claim,  should  inter- 
pret the  personal  experience  of  the  spectator;  hence 
whatever  he  puts  into  it  belongs  there  of  right.  There 
are,  however,  two  considerations  limiting  the  validity  of 
this  assertion.  First,  the  work  of  art  is  primarily  an 
expression  of  the  artist's  personality  and,  second,  its 
purpose  is  to  provide  a  common  medium  of  expression 
for  the  experience  of  all  men.  If  interpretation  remains 
a  purely  individual  affair,  both  its  relation  to  the  artist 
and  the  possibility  of  a  common  aesthetic  experience 
through  it  are  destroyed.  For  this  reason  we  should, 
I  believe,  deliberately  seek  to  make  our  appreciations 
historically  sound  and  definite.  And  in  the  social 
and  historical  appreciation  resulting,  we  shall  find  our 
own  lives  —  not  so  different  from  the  artist's  and  our 
fellows'  —  abundantly  and  sufficiently  expressed. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    ANALYSIS    OF    THE   ESTHETIC    EXPERIENCE:     THE 
STRUCTURE   OF  THE  EXPERIENCE 

IN  our  discussion  of  first  principles,  we  set  down  a 
high  degree  of  unity  as  one  of  the  distinguishing  char- 
acteristics of  works  of  art.  In  this  we  followed  close 
upon  ancient  tradition ;  for  the  markedly  structural 
character  of  beauty  was  noticed  by  the  earliest  observ- 
ers. Plato,  the  first  philosopher  of  art,  identified 
beauty  with  simplicity,  harmony,  and  proportion,  and 
Aristotle  held  the  same  view.  They  were  so  impressed 
with  aesthetic  unity  that  they  compared  it  with  the 
other  most  highly  unified  type  of  thing  they  knew,  the 
organism ;  and  ever  afterwards  it  has  been  called 
"organic  unity."  With  the  backing  of  such  authority, 
unity  in  variety  was  long  thought  to  be  the  same  as 
beauty ;  and,  although  this  view  is  obviously  one- 
sided, no  one  has  since  succeeded  in  persuading  men 
that  an  object  can  be  beautiful  without  unity. 

Since  art  is  expression,  its  unity  is,  unavoidably,  an 
image  of  the  unity  of  the  things  in  nature  and  mind 
which  it  expresses.  A  lyric  poem  reflects  the  unity  of 
mood  that  binds  together  the  thoughts  and  images  of 
the  poet ;  the  drama  and  novel,  the  unity  of  plan  and 
purpose  in  the  acts  of  men  and  the  fateful  sequence  of 
causes  and  effects  in  their  lives.  The  statue  reflects 
the  organic  unity  of  the  body ;  the  painting,  the 


The  Structure  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     81 

spatial  unity  of  visible  things.  In  beautiful  artifacts, 
the  basal  unity  is  the  purpose  or  end  embodied  in  the 
material  structure. 

But  the  unity  of  works  of  art  is  not  wholly  deriva- 
tive ;  for  it  occurs  in  the  free  arts  like  music,  where 
nothing  is  imitated,  and  even  in  the  representative  arts, 
as  we  have  observed,  it  is  closer  than  in  the  things  which 
are  imaged.  ^Esthetic  unity  is  therefore  unique  and,  if 
we  would  understand  it,  we  must  seek  its  reason  in  the 
peculiar  nature  and  purpose  of  art.  Since,  moreover, 
art  is  a  complex  fact,  the  explanation  of  its  unity  is  not 
simple;  the  unity  itself  is  very  intricate  and  depends 
upon  many  cooperating  factors. 

In  the  case  of  the  imitative  arts,  taking  the  given 
unity  of  the  objects  represented  as  a  basis,  the  superior 
unity  of  the  image  is  partly  due  to  the  singleness  of  the 
artist's  interest.  For  art,  as  we  know,  is  never  the 
expression  of  mere  things,  but  of  things  so  far  as  they 
have  value.  Out  of  the  infinite  fullness  of  nature  and 
of  life,  the  artist  selects  those  elements  that  have  a 
unique  significance  for  him. 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory ; 
Odors,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken ; 
Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
Are  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed ; 
And  so  thy  thoughts  when  thou  art  gone, 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 

Observe  how,  out  of  the  countless  things  which  he 
knows,  the  poet  has  chosen  those  which  he  feels  akin  to 


82  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

his  faith  in  the  immortality  of  love.  The  painter 
would  not,  if  he  could,  reproduce  all  the  elements  of  a 
face,  but  only  those  that  are  expressive  of  the  interpre- 
tation of  character  he  wishes  to  convey.  The  novelist 
and  the  dramatist  proceed  in  a  like  selective  fashion  in 
the  treatment  of  their  material.  In  the  lives  of  men 
there  are  a  thousand  actions  and  events  —  casual 
spoken  words,  recurrent  processes  such  as  eating  and 
dressing,  hours  of  idleness  and  futility  —  which,  be- 
cause repetitious,  habitual,  or  inconsequential,  throw  no 
light  upon  that  alone  in  which  we  are  interested, — 
character  and  fortune.  To  describe  a  single  example  of 
these  facts  suffices.  In  the  novel  and  drama,  there- 
fore, the  personalities  and  life  histories  of  men  have  a 
simplicity  and  singleness  of  direction  not  found  in 
reality.  The  artist  seeks  everywhere  the  traits  that 
individualize  and  characterize,  and  neglects  all  others. 

Moreover,  since  the  aim  of  art  is  to  afford  pleasure 
in  the  intuition  of  life,  the  artist  will  try  to  reveal  the 
hidden  unities  that  so  delight  the  mind  to  discover. 
He  will  aim  to  penetrate  beneath  the  surface  of  ex- 
perience observed  by  common  perception,  to  its  more 
obscure  logic  underneath.  In  this  way  he  will  go  be- 
yond what  the  mere  mechanism  of  imitation  requires. 
The  poet,  for  example,  manifests  latent  emotional 
harmonies  among  the  most  widely  sundered  things. 
The  subtle  novelist  shows  how  single  elements  of  char- 
acter, apparently  isolated  acts  or  trivial  incidents,  are 
fateful  of  consequences.  He  discloses  the  minute  reac- 
tions of  one  personality  upon  another.  Or  he  enters 
into  the  soul  of  man  himself,  into  his  private  and  indi- 
vidual selfhood,  and  uncovers  the  hidden  connections 


The  Structure  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     83 

between  thought  and  feeling  and  impulse.  Finally,  he 
may  take  the  wider  sweep  of  society  and  tradition  into 
view  and  track  out  their  part  in  the  molding  of  man 
and  his  fate.  In  the  search  for  unity,  the  artist  is  on 
common  ground  with  the  man  of  science ;  but  with 
this  difference  :  the  artist  is  concerned  with  laws  oper- 
ating in  concrete,  individual  things  in  which  he  is 
interested;  while  the  scientist  formulates  them  in  the 
abstract.  For  the  artist,  unity  is  valuable  as  char- 
acterizing a  significant  individual ;  for  the  scientist, 
it  is  valuable  in  itself,  and  the  individual  only  as  an 
example  of  it. 

This  same  purpose  of  affording  pleasure  in  sympa- 
thetic vision  leads  the  artist  not  only  to  present  the 
unity  of  life,  but  so  to  organize  its  material  that  it  will 
be  clear  to  the  mind  which  perceives  it.  Too  great  a 
multitude  of  elements,  elements  that  are  not  assorted 
into  groups  and  tied  by  relations  or  principles,  cannot 
be  grasped.  Hence  the  artist  infuses  into  the  world 
which  he  creates  a  new  and  wholly  subjective  simplicity 
and  unity,  to  which  there  is  no  parallel  in  nature. 
The  composition  of  elements  in  a  picture  does  not 
correspond  to  any  actual  arrangement  of  elements  in 
a  landscape,  but  to  the  demands  of  visual  perspicuity. 
The  division  of  a  novel  into  chapters,  of  the  chapters 
into  paragraphs,  of  the  paragraphs  into  sentences, 
although  it  may  answer  in  some  measure  to  the  objec- 
tive divisions  of  the  life-story  related,  corresponds 
much  more  closely  to  the  subjective  need  for  ready 
apprehension.  The  artist  meets  this  need  halfway  in 
the  organization  of  the  material  which  he  presents. 
Full  beauty  depends  upon  an  adaptation  of  the  object 


84  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

to  the  senses,  attention,  and  synthetic  functions  of  the 
mind.  The  long,  rambling  novel  of  the  eighteenth 
century  is  a  more  faithful  image  of  the  fullness  and 
diversity  of  life,  but  it  answers  ill  to  the  limited  sweep 
of  the  mind,  its  proneness  to  fatigue,  and  its  craving 
for  wholeness  of  view. 

.  But  even  all  the  reasons  so  far  invoked  —  the  neces- 
sity for  significance,  the  interest  in  unity,  the  demand 
for  perspicuity  —  do  not,  I  think,  suffice  to  explain  the 
structure  of  works  of  art.  For  structure  has,  often- 
times, a  direct  emotional  appeal,  which  has  not  yet 
been  taken  into  account,  and  which  is  a  leading  motive 
for  its  presence.  Consider,  for  example,  symmetry. 
A  symmetrical  disposition  of  parts  is  indeed  favorable 
to  perspicuity;  for  it  is  easier  to  find  on  either  side 
what  we  have  already  found  on  the  other,  the  sight  of 
one  side  preparing  us  for  the  sight  of  the  other;  and 
such  an  arrangement  is  flattering  to  our  craving  for 
unity,  for  we  rejoice  seeing  the  same  pattern  expressed 
in  the  two  parts;  yet  the  experience  of  symmetry  is 
richer  still :  it  includes  an  agreeable  feeling  of  balance, 
steadfastness,  stability.  This  is  most  evident  in  the 
case  of  visual  objects,  like  a  Greek  vase,  where  there  is 
a  plain  division  between  right  and  left  similar  halves ; 
but  it  is  also  felt  in  music  when  there  is  a  balance  of 
themes  in  the  earlier  and  later  parts  of  a  composition, 
and  in  literature  in  the  well-balanced  sentence,  para- 
graph, or  poem.  To  cite  the  very  simplest  example,  if 
I  read,  "on  the  one  hand  ...  on  the  other  hand,"  I 
have  a  feeling  of  balanced  tensions  precisely  analogous 
to  what  I  experience  when  I  look  at  a  vase.  Structure 
is  not  a  purely  intellectual  or  perceptive  affair;  it  is 


The  Structure  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     85 

also  motor  and  organic,  and  that  means  emotional.  It 
is  felt  with  the  body  as  well  as  understood  by  the  mind. 
I  have  used  the  case  of  symmetry  to  bring  out  this 
truth,  but  I  might  have  used  other  types  of  unification, 
each  of  which  has  its  unique  feeling  tone,  as  I  shall 
show  presently,  after  I  have  analyzed  them. 

Keeping  in  mind  the  motives  which  explain  the 
structure  of  works  of  art,  I  wish  now  to  distinguish  and 
describe  the  chief  types.  There  are,  I  think,  three  of 
these,  of  which  each  one  may  include  important  special 
forms  —  unity  in  variety,  dominance,  and  equilibrium. 

Unity  in  variety  was  the  earliest  of  the  types  to 
be  observed  and  is  the  most  fundamental.  It  is  the 
organic  unity  so  often  referred  to  in  criticism.  It 
involves,  in  the  first  place,  wholeness  or  individuality. 
Every  work  of  art  is  a  definite  single  thing,  distinct  and 
separate  from  other  things,  and  not  divisible  into  parts 
which  are  themselves  complete  works  of  art.  No  part 
can  be  taken  away  without  damage  to  the  whole,  and 
when  taken  out  of  the  whole,  the  part  loses  much  of 
its  own  value.  The  whole  needs  all  of  its  parts  and 
they  need  it;  "there  they  live  and  move  and  have 
their  being."  The  unity  is  a  unity  of  the  variety  and 
the  variety  is  a  differentiation  of  the  unity.1  The 
variety  is  of  equal  importance  with  the  unity,  for  unity 
can  assert  itself  and  work  only  through  the  control  of 
a  multiplicity  of  elements.  The  analogy  between  the 
unity  of  the  work  of  art  and  the  unity  of  the  organism 
is  still  the  most  accurate  and  illuminating.  For,  like 
the  work  of  art,  the  body  is  a  self-sufficient  and  dis- 
tinctive whole,  whose  unified  life  depends  upon  the 

1  Cf .  Lipps :   JEsthetilc,  Bd.  I,  Drittes  Kapitel. 


86  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

functioning  of  many  members,  which,  for  their  part, 
are  dead  when  cut  away  from  it. 

The  conception  of  unity  in  variety  as  organic  repre- 
sents an  ideal  or  norm  for  art,  which  is  only  imperfectly 
realized  in  many  works.  There  are  few  novels  which 
would  be  seriously  damaged  by  the  omission  of  whole 
chapters,  and  many  a  rambling  essay  in  good  standing 
would  permit  pruning  without  injury,  unless  indeed 
we  are  made  to  feel  that  the  apparently  dispensable 
material  really  contributes  something  of  fullness  and 
exuberance,  and  so  is  not  superfluous,  after  all.  The 
unity  in  some  forms  of  art  is  tighter  than  in  others ; 
in  a  play  closer  than  in  a  novel ;  in  a  sonnet  more 
compact  than  in  an  epic.  In  extreme  examples,  like 
The  Thousand  and  One  Nights,  the  Decameron,  the 
Canterbury  Tales,  the  unity  is  almost  wholly  nominal, 
and  the  work  is  really  a  collection,  not  a  whole.  With 
all  admissions,  it  remains  true,  however,  that  offenses 
against  the  principle  of  unity  in  variety  diminish  the 
aesthetic  value  of  a  work.  These  offenses  are  of  two 
kinds  —  the  inclusion  of  the  genuinely  irrelevant,  and 
multiple  unity,  like  double  composition  in  a  picture, 
or  ambiguity  of  style  in  a  building.  There  may  be 
two  or  more  parallel  lines  of  action  in  a  play  or  a  novel, 
two  or  more  themes  in  music,  but  they  must  be  inter- 
woven and  interdependent.  Otherwise  there  occurs 
the  phenomenon  aptly  called  by  Lipps  "aesthetic 
rivalry "  -  each  part  claims  to  be  the  whole  and  to 
exclude  its  neighbor;  yet  being  unable  to  do  this, 
suffers  injury  through  divided  attention. 

Unity  in  variety  may  exist  in  any  one  or  more  of 
three  modes  —  the  harmony  or  union  of  cooperating 


The  Structure  of  the  .Esthetic  Experience     87 

elements ;  the  balance  of  contrasting  or  conflicting  ele- 
ments ;  the  development  or  evolution  of  a  process 
towards  an  end  or  climax.  The  first  two  are  pre- 
dominantly static  or  spatial;  the  last,  dynamic  and 
temporal.  I  know  of  no  better  way  of  indicating  the 
characteristic  quality  of  each  than  by  citing  examples. 

^Esthetic  harmony  exists  whenever  some  identical 
quality  or  form  or  purpose  is  embodied  in  various 
elements  of  a  whole  —  sameness  in  difference.  The 
repetition  of  the  same  space-form  in  architecture,  like 
the  round  arch  and  window  in  the  Roman  style ;  the 
recurrence  of  the  same  motive  in  music ;  the  use  of  a 
single  hue  to  color  the  different  objects  in  a  painting,  as 
in  a  nocturne  of  Whistler :  these  are  simple  illustra- 
tions of  harmony.  An  almost  equally  simple  case  is 
gradation  or  lawful  change  of  quality  in  space  and 
time  —  the  increase  or  decrease  of  loudness  in  music, 
of  saturation  or  brightness  of  hue  in  painting,  the 
gentle  change  of  direction  of  a  curved  line.  In  these 
cases  there  is,  of  course,  a  dynamic  or  dramatic  effect, 
if  you  take  the  elements  in  sequence ;  but  when  taken 
simultaneously  and  together,  they  are  a  harmony,  not 
a  development.  Simplest  of  all  is  the  harmony  be- 
tween like  parts  of  regular  figures,  such  as  squares  and 
circles ;  or  between  colors  which  are  neighboring  in 
hue.  Harmonious  also  are  characters  in  a  story  or 
play  which  are  united  by  feelings  of  love,  friendship, 
or  loyalty.  Thus  there  is  harmony  between  Hamlet 
and  Horatio,  or  between  the  Cid  and  his  followers. 

^Esthetic  balance  is  the  unity  between  elements 
which,  while  they  oppose  or  conflict  with  one  another, 
nevertheless  need  or  supplement  each  other.  Hostile 


88  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

things,  enemies  at  war,  business  men  that  compete, 
persons  that  hate  each  other,  have  as  great  a  need  of 
their  opponents,  in  order  that  there  may  be  a  certain 
type  of  life,  as  friends  have,  in  order  that  there  may  be 
love  between  them ;  and  in  relation  to  each  other  they 
create  a  whole  in  the  one  case  as  in  the  other.  There 
is  as  genuine  a  unity  between  contrasting  colors  and 
musical  themes  as  there  is  between  colors  closely  allied 
in  hue  or  themes  simply  transposed  in  key.  Con- 
trasting elements  are  always  the  extremes  of  some  series, 
and  are  unified,  despite  the  contrast,  because  they 
supplement  each  other.  Things  merely  different,  no 
matter  how  different,  cannot  contrast,  for  there  must 
be  some  underlying  whole,  to  which  both  belong,  in 
which  they  are  unified.  In  order  that  this  unity  may 
be  felt,  it  is  often  necessary  to  avoid  absolute  extremes, 
or  at  least  to  mediate  between  them.  Among  colors, 
for  example,  hues  somewhat  closer  than  the  comple- 
mentary are  preferred  to  the  latter,  or,  if  the  extremes 
are  employed,  each  one  leads  up  to  the  other  through 
intermediate  hues.  The  unity  of  contrasting  colors  is 
a  balance  because,  as  extremes,  they  take  an  equal 
hold  on  the  attention.  The  well-known  accentuation 
of  contrasting  elements  does  not  interfere  with  the 
balance,  because  it  is  mutual.  A  balanced  unity  is 
also  created  by  contrasts  of  character,  as  in  Goethe's 
Tasso,  or  by  a  conflict  between  social  classes  or  parties, 
as  in  Hauptmann's  Die  Weber.  Balanced,  finally,  is 
the  unity  between  the  elements  of  a  painting,  right  and 
left,  which  draw  the  attention  in  opposite  directions. 

The  third  type  of  unity  appears  in  any  process  or 
sequence  in  which  all  the  elements,  one  after  another, 


The  Structure  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     89 

contribute  towards  the  bringing  about  of  some  end  or 
result.  It  is  the  unity  characteristic  of  all  teleologi- 
cally  related  facts.  The  sequence  cannot  be  a  mere 
succession  or  even  a  simple  causal  series,  but  must 
also  be  purposive,  because,  in  order  to  be  aesthetic,  the 
goal  which  is  reached  must  have  value.  Causality  is 
an  important  aspect  of  this  type  of  unity,  as  in  the 
drama,  but  only  because  a  teleological  series  of  actions 
depends  upon  a  chain  of  causally  related  means  and 
ends.  The  type  is  of  two  varieties  :  in  the  one,  the 
movement  is  smooth,  each  element  being  harmoniously 
related  to  the  last ;  in  the  other,  it  is  difficult  and 
dramatic,  proceeding  through  the  resolution  of  opposi- 
tions among  its  elements.  The  movement  usually 
has  three  stages :  an  initial  phase  of  introduction  and 
preparation ;  a  second  phase  of  opposition  and  compli- 
cation ;  then  a  final  one,  the  climax  or  catastrophe, 
when  the  goal  is  reached ;  there  may  also  be  a  fourth, — 
the  working  out  of  the  consequences  of  this  last.  Illus- 
trations of  this  mode  of  unity  are :  the  course  of  a 
story  or  a  play  from  the  introduction  of  the  characters 
and  the  complication  of  the  plot  to  the  denouement 
or  solving  of  the  problem ;  the  development  of  a  char- 
acter in  a  novel  from  a  state  of  simplicity  or  innocence 
through  storm  and  stress  into  maturity  or  ruin;  the 
evolution  of  a  sentiment  in  a  sonnet  towards  its  final 
statement  in  the  last  line  or  two ;  the  melody,  in  its 
departure  from  the  keynote,  its  going  forth  and  return ; 
the  career  of  a  line. 

As  I  have  indicated  before,  each  type  of  unity  has 
its  specific  emotional  quality.  The  very  word  har- 
mony which  we  use  to  denote  the  first  mode  is  itself 


90  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

connotative  of  a  way  of  being  affected,  of  being  moved 
emotionally.  The  mood  of  this  mode  is  quiet,  oneness, 
peace.  We  feel  as  if  we  were  closely  and  compactly 
put  together.  If  now,  within  the  aesthetic  whole,  we 
emphasize  the  variety,  we  begin  to  lose  the  mood  of 
peace ;  tensions  arise,  until,  in  the  case  of  contrast  and 
opposition,  there  is  a  feeling  of  conflict  and  division  in 
the  self ;  yet  without  loss  of  unity,  because,  if  the  whole 
is  aesthetic,  each  of  the  opposing  elements  demands 
the  other;  hence  there  is  balance  between  them,  and 
this  also  we  not  only  know  to  be  there,  but  feel  there. 
The  characteristic  mood  of  the  evolutionary  type  of 
unity  is  equally  unique  —  either  a  sense  of  easy  mo- 
tion, when  the  process  is  unobstructed,  or  excitement 
and  breathlessness,  when  there  is  opposition. 

The  different  types  of  unity  are  by  no  means  exclusive 
of  each  other  and  are  usually  found  together  in  any 
complex  work  of  art.  Symmetry  usually  involves  a 
combination  of  harmony  and  balance.  The  sym- 
metrical halves  of  a  Greek  vase,  for  example,  are 
harmonious  in  so  far  as  their  size  and  shape  are  the 
same,  yet  balanced  as  being  disposed  in  opposite  direc- 
tions, right  and  left.  Rhythm  is  temporal  symmetry, 
and  so  also  represents  a  combination  of  harmony  and 
balance.  Static  rhythm  is  only  apparent ;  for  in  every 
seeming  case,  the  rhythm  really  pervades  the  succes- 
sion of  acts  of  attention  to  the  elements  rather  than 
the  elements  themselves ;  a  colonnade,  for  example,  is 
rhythmical  only  when  the  attention  moves  from  one 
column  to  another.  There  is  harmony  in  rhythm,  for 
there  is  always  some  law  —  metrical  scheme  in  poetry, 
time  in  music,  similarity  of  column  and  equality  of 


The  Structure  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     91 

interval  between  them  in  a  colonnade  —  pervading  the 
elements.  But  there  is  also  balance ;  for  as  the  ele- 
ments enter  the  mind  one  after  the  other,  there  is 
rivalry  between  the  element  now  occupying  the  focus 
of  the  attention  and  the  one  that  is  about  to  present 
an  equal  claim  to  this  position.  Because  of  its  intrinsic 
value,  we  tend  to  hold  on  to  each  element  as  we  hear 
or  see  it,  but  are  forced  to  relinquish  it  for  the  sake  of 
the  one  that  follows ;  only  for  a  moment  can  we  keep 
both  in  the  conscious  span;  the  recurrence  and  over- 
coming of  the  resulting  tension,  as  we  follow  the  suc- 
cession through,  creates  the  pulsation  so  characteristic 
of  rhythm.  The  opposition  of  the  elements  as  in  turn 
they  crowd  each  other  out  does  not,  however,  interfere 
with  the  harmony,  for  they  have  an  existence  all  to- 
gether in  memory,  where  the  law  binding  them  can  be 
felt, —  a  law  which  each  element  as  it  comes  into 
consciousness  is  recognized  as  fulfilling.  Since  we 
usually  look  forward  to  the  end  of  the  rhythmical 
movement  as  a  goal,  rhythm  often  exists  in  combina- 
tion with  evolution,  and  is  therefore  the  most  inclusive 
of  all  artistic  structural  forms.  In  a  poem,  for  example, 
the  metrical  rhythm  is  a  framework  overlying  the 
development  of  the  thought.  Dramatic  unity  is  found 
combined  with  balance  even  in  the  static  arts,  as,  for 
example,  in  the  combination  of  blue  and  gold,  where 
the  balance  is  not  quite  equal,  because  of  a  slight 
movement  from  the  blue  to  the  more  brilliant  and 
striking  gold.  I  have  already  shown  how  harmony, 
opposition,  and  evolution  may  be  combined  in  a  melody. 
In  the  drama,  also,  all  three  are  present.  There  is  a 
balance  of  opposing  and  conflicting  wills  or  forces; 


92  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

this  is  unstable ;  whence  movement  follows,  leading  on 
to  the  catastrophe,  where  the  problem  is  solved;  and 
throughout  there  is  a  single  mood  or  atmosphere  in 
which  all  participate,  creating  an  enveloping  harmony 
despite  the  tension  and  action.  And  other  illustra- 
tions of  combinations  of  types  will  come  to  the  mind 
of  every  reader. 

Each  form  of  unity  has  its  difficulties  and  dangers, 
which  must  be  avoided  if  perfection  is  to  be  attained. 
In  harmony  there  may  be  too  much  identity  and  too 
little  difference  or  variety,  with  the  result  that  the 
whole  becomes  tedious  and  uninteresting.  This  is  the 
fault  of  rigid  symmetry  and  of  all  other  simple  geo- 
metrical types  of  composition,  which,  for  this  reason, 
have  lost  their  old  popularity  in  the  decorative  and 
pictorial  arts.  In  balance,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
danger  is  that  there  may  be  too  great  a  variety,  too 
strong  an  opposition ;  the  elements  tend  to  fly  apart, 
threatening  the  integrity  of  the  whole.  For  it  is  not 
sufficient  that  wholeness  exist  in  a  work  of  art ;  it  must 
also  be  felt.  For  example,  in  Pre-Raphaelite  paintings 
and  in  most  of  the  Secession  work  of  our  own  day,  the 
color  contrasts  are  too  strong;  there  is  no  impression 
of  visual  unity.  In  the  dramatic  type  of  unity  there 
are  two  chief  dangers  —  that  the  evolution  be  tor- 
tuous, so  that  we  lose  our  way  in  its  bypaths  and 
mazes ;  or,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  end  be  reached 
too  simply  and  quickly;  in  the  one  case,  we  lose 
heart  for  the  journey  because  of  the  obstacles;  in 
the  other,  we  lose  interest  and  are  bored  for  want 
of  incidents. 

We  come  now  to  the  second  great  principle  of  aesthetic 


The  Structure  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     93 

structure  —  dominance.1  In  an  aesthetic  whole  the 
elements  are  seldom  all  on  a  level ;  some  are  superior, 
others  subordinate.  The  unity  is  mediated  through 
one  or  more  accented  elements,  through  which  the 
whole  comes  to  emphatic  expression.  The  attention 
is  not  evenly  distributed  among  the  parts,  but  pro- 
ceeds from  certain  ones  which  are  focal  and  command- 
ing to  others  which  are  of  lesser  interest.  And  the 
dominant  elements  are  not  only  superior  in  significance ; 
they  are,  in  addition,  representative  of  the  whole;  in 
them,  its  value  is  concentrated;  they  are  the  key  by 
means  of  which  its  structure  can  be  understood.  They 
are  like  good  rulers  in  a  constitutional  state,  who  are 
at  once  preeminent  members  of  the  community  and 
signal  embodiments  of  the  common  will.  Anything 
which  distinguishes  and  makes  representative  of  the 
whole  serves  to  make  dominant.  In  a  well-constructed 
play  there  are  one  or  more  characters  which  are  central 
to  the  action,  in  whom  the  spirit  and  problem  of  the 
piece  are  embodied,  as  Hamlet  in  Hamlet  and  Brand 
in  Brand;  in  every  plot  there  is  the  catastrophe  or 
turning  point,  for  which  every  preceding  incident  is  a 
preparation,  and  of  which  every  following  one  is  a 
consequent ;  in  a  melody  there  is  the  keynote ;  in  the 
larger  composition  there  are  the  one  or  more  themes 
whose  working  out  is  the  piece ;  in  a  picture  there  are 
certain  elements  which  especially  attract  the  atten- 
tion, about  which  the  others  are  composed.  In  the 
more  complex  rhythms,  in  meters,  for  example,  the 
elements  are  grouped  around  the  accented  ones. 

In  an  aesthetic  whole  there  are  certain  qualities  and 

1  Cf.  Lipps :  JEsthetik,  Bd.  I,  S.  53,  Viertes  Kapitel. 


94  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

positions  which,  because  of  their  claim  upon  the  atten- 
tion, tend  to  make  dominant  any  elements  which 
possess  them.  In  space-forms  the  Center  and  the 
edges  are  naturally  places  of  preeminence.  The  eye 
falls  first  upon  the  center  and  then  is  drawn  away  to 
the  boundaries.  In  old  pictures,  the  Madonna  or 
Christ  is  placed  in  the  center  and  the  angels  near  the 
perimeter;  in  fancy  work  it  is  the  center  and  the 
border  which  women  embroider.  In  time,  the  begin- 
ning, middle,  and  end  are  the  natural  places  of  impor- 
tance ;  the  beginning,  because  there  the  attention  is 
fresh  and  expectant ;  towards  the  middle,  because 
there  we  tend  to  rest,  looking  backward  to  the  com- 
mencement and  forward  to  the  end;  the  end  itself, 
because  being  last  in  the  mind,  its  hold  upon  the 
memory  is  firmest.  In  any  process  the  beginning  is 
important  as  the  start,  the  plan,  the  preparation ;  the 
middle  as  the  climax  and  turning  point;  the  end  as 
the  consummation.  Of  course  by  the  middle  is  not 
meant  a  mathematical  point  of  division  into  equal  parts, 
but  a  psychological  point,  which  is  usually  nearer  the 
end,  because  the  impetus  of  action  and  purpose  carry 
forward  and  beyond.  Thus  in  a  plot  the  beginning 
stands  out  as  setting  the  problem  and  introducing  the 
characters  and  situation ;  then  the  movement  of  the 
action,  gathering  force  increasingly  as  it  proceeds, 
breaks  at  some  point  well  beyond  the  middle;  in  the 
last  part  the  problem  is  solved  and  the  consequences 
of  the  action  are  revealed.  Large  size  is  another 
quality  which  distinguishes  and  tends  to  make  domi- 
nant, as  in  the  tower  and  the  mountain.  In  one  of 
Memling's  paintings,  "St.  Ursula  and  the  Maidens," 


The  Structure  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     95 

which,  when  I  saw  it,  was  in  Bruges,  the  lady  is  repre- 
sented twice  as  tall  as  the  full  grown  girls  whom  she 
envelops  in  her  protecting  cloak;  yet,  despite  the  un- 
naturalness,  we  do  not  experience  any  incongruity; 
for  it  is  rational  to  our  feeling.  Intensity  of  any  sort 
is  another  property  which  creates  dominance  —  loud- 
ness  of  sound  in  music ;  concentration  of  light  in  paint- 
ing, as  in  Rembrandt ;  stress  in  rhythm ;  depth  and 
scope  of  purpose  and  feeling,  as  in  the  great  characters 
of  fiction.  The  effectiveness  of  intensity  may  be 
greatly  increased  through  contrast  —  the  pianissimo 
after  the  fortissimo ;  the  pathos  of  the  fifth  act  of 
Hamlet  set  off  by  the  comedy  of  the  first  scene.  Some- 
times all  the  natural  qualifications  of  eminence  are 
united  in  a  single  work :  in  old  paintings,  for  example, 
the  Christ  Child,  spiritually  the  most  significant  ele- 
ment of  the  whole,  will  be  of  supernatural  size,  will 
occupy  the  center  of  the  picture,  will  have  the  light 
concentrated  upon  him,  and  will  be  dressed  in  brightly 
gleaming  garments. 

As  I  have  already  indicated,  there  may  be  more  than 
one  dominant  element;  for  instance,  two  or  more 
principal  characters  in  a  novel  or  play  —  Lord  and 
Lady  Macbeth,  Sancho  and  Don  Quixote,  Othello  and 
Desdemona,  Brand  and  his  wife.  In  this  case,  there 
must  be  either  subordination  among  them,  a  hier- 
archical arrangement;  or  else  reciprocity  or  balance, 
as  in  the  illustrations  cited,  where  it  is  difficult  to  tell 
which  is  the  more  important  of  the  two;  otherwise 
they  would  pull  the  whole  apart.  The  advantage  of 
several  dominant  elements  lies  in  the  greater  anima- 
tion, and  when  the  work  is  large,  in  the  superior  organ- 


96  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

ization,  which  they  confer.  In  order  that  there  may 
be  perspicuity,  it  is  necessary,  when  there  are  many 
elements,  that  they  be  separated  into  minor  groups 
around  high  points  which  individualize  and  represent 
them,  and  so  take  their  place  in  the  mind,  mediating 
between  them  and  unity  when  a  final  synthesis  of  the 
whole  is  to  be  made. 

The  third  great  principle  of  aesthetic  structure  is 
equilibrium  or  impartiality.  This  is  a  principle  coun- 
teracting dominance.  It  demands,  despite  the  sub- 
ordination among  the  elements,  that  none  be  neglected. 
Each,  no  matter  how  minor  its  part  in  the  whole,  must 
have  some  unique  value  of  its  own,  must  be  an  end  as 
well  as  a  means.  Dominance  is  the  aristocratic  prin- 
ciple in  art,  the  rule  of  the  best ;  this  is  the  democratic 
principle,  the  demand  for  freedom  and  significance  for 
all.  Just  as,  in  a  well-ordered  state,  the  happiness  of 
no  individual  or  class  of  individuals  is  sacrificed  to 
that  of  other  individuals  or  classes;  so  in  art,  each 
part  must  be  elaborated  and  perfected,  not  merely  for 
the  sake  of  its  contribution  to  the  whole,  but  for  its 
own  sake.  There  should  be  no  mere  figure-heads  or 
machinery.  Loving  care  of  detail,  of  the  incidental, 
characterizes  the  best  art. 

Of  course  this  principle,  like  the  others,  is  an  ideal 
or  norm,  which  is  only  imperfectly  realized  in  many 
works  of  art.  Many  a  poet  finds  it  necessary  to  fill 
in  his  lines  and  many  a  painter  and  musician  does  the 
like  with  his  pictures  or  compositions.  There  is  much 
mere  scaffolding  and  many  lay-figures  in  drama  and 
novel.  But  the  work  of  the  masters  is  different. 
There  each  line  or  stroke  or  musical  phrase,  each 


The  Structure  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     97 

character  or  incident,  is  unique  or  meaningful.  The 
greatest  example  of  this  is  perhaps  the  Divine  Comedy, 
where  each  of  the  hundred  cantos  and  each  line  of  each 
canto  is  perfect  in  workmanship  and  packed  with 
significance.  There  is,  of  course,  a  limit  to  this  elabo- 
ration of  the  parts,  set  by  the  demands  for  unity  and 
wholeness.  The  individuality  of  the  elements  must  not 
be  so  great  that  we  rest  in  them  severally,  caring  little 
or  nothing  for  their  relations  to  one  another  and  to 
the  whole.  The  contribution  of  this  principle  is  rich- 
ness. Unity  in  variety  gives  wholeness ;  dominance, 
order;  equilibrium,  wealth,  interest,  vitality. 

The  structure  of  works  of  art  is  even  more  compli- 
cated than  would  appear  from  the  description  given 
thus  far.  For  there  is  not  only  the  unity  of  the  ele- 
ments among  themselves,  but  between  the  two  aspects 
of  each  element  and  of  the  whole  —  the  form  and 
content.  This  —  the  unity  between  the  sense  medium 
and  whatever  of  thought  and  feeling  is  embodied  in 
it  —  is  the  fundamental  unity  in  all  expression.  It 
is  the  unity  between  a  word  and  its  meaning,  a  musical 
tone  and  its  mood,  a  color  and  shape  and  what  they 
represent.  Since,  however,  it  is  indispensable  to  all 
expression,  it  is  not  peculiar  to  art.  And  to  a  large 
extent,  even  in  the  creative  work  of  the  artist,  this 
unity  is  given,  not  made ;  the  very  materials  of  the 
artist  consisting  of  elementary  expressions  —  words, 
tones,  colors,  space-forms  —  in  which  the  unity  of 
form  and  content  has  already  been  achieved,  either 
by  an  innate  psycho-physical  process,  as  is  the  case 
with  tones  and  simple  rhythms,  or  by  association  and 
habit,  as  is  the  case  with  the  words  of  any  natural 


98  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

language,  or  the  object-meanings  which  we  attach  to 
colors  and  shapes.  The  poet  does  not  work  with 
sounds,  but  with  words  which  already  have  their 
definite  meanings ;  his  creation  consists  of  the  larger 
whole  into  which  he  weaves  them.  Of  course,  even  in 
the  case  of  ordinary  verbal  expression,  the  thought 
often  comes  first  before  its  clothing  in  words,  when 
there  is  a  certain  process  of  choice  and  fitting ;  and  in 
painting  there  is  always  the  possibility  of  varying  con- 
ventional forms ;  yet  even  so,  in  large  measure,  the 
elements  of  the  arts  are  themselves  expressions,  in 
which  a  unity  of  form  and  content  already  exists. 

In  art,  however,  there  are  subtler  aspects  to  the  rela- 
tion between  form  and  content,  and  these  have  a 
unique  aesthetic  significance.  For  there,  as  we  know, 
the  elements  of  the  medium,  colors  and  lines  and 
sounds,  and  the  patterns  of  these,  their  harmonies  and 
structures  and  rhythms,  are  expressive,  in  a  vague 
way,  of  feeling;  hence,  when  the  artist  employs  them 
as  embodiments  of  his  ideas,  he  has  to  select  them, 
not  only  as  carriers  of  meaning,  but  as  communications 
of  mood.  Now,  in  order  that  his  selection  be  appro- 
priate, it  is  clearly  necessary  that  the  feeling  tone  of 
the  form  be  identical  with  that  of  the  content  which 
he  puts  into  it.  The  medium  as  such  must  reexpress 
and  so  enforce  the  values  of  the  content.  This  is  the 
"harmony,"  as  distinguished  from  the  mere  unity,  of 
form  and  content,  the  existence  of  which  in  art  is  one 
of  its  distinguishing  properties.  I  have  already  called 
attention  to  this  in  our  second  chapter.  It  involves,  as 
we  observed,  that  in  painting,  for  example,  the  feeling 
tone  of  the  colors  and  lines  should  be  identical  with 


The  Structure  of  the  ^Esthetic  Experience     99 

that  of  the  objects  to  be  represented;  in  poetry,  that 
the  emotional  quality  of  meter  and  rhythm  should  be 
attuned  to  the  incidents  and  sentiments  expressed. 
Otherwise  the  effect  is  ugly  or  comical. 

When  we  come  to  the  work  of  art,  this  harmony  is 
already  achieved.  But  for  the  artist  it  is  something 
delicately  to  be  worked  out.  Yet,  just  as  in  ordinary 
expression  form  and  content  often  emerge  in  unison, 
the  thought  itself  being  a  word  and  the  word  a  thought ; 
so  in  artistic  creation,  the  mother  mood  out  of  which 
the  creative  act  springs,  finds  immediate  and  forth- 
right embodiment  in  a  congenial  form.  Such  a  spon- 
taneous and  perfect  balance  of  matter  and  form  is, 
however,  seldom  achieved  without  long  and  painful 
experimentation  and  practice,  both  by  the  artist  him- 
self in  his  own  private  work,  and  by  his  predecessors, 
whose  results  he  appropriates.  Large  traditional  and 
oftentimes  rigid  forms,  such  as  the  common  metrical 
and  musical  schemes  and  architectural  orders,  into 
which  the  personal  matter  of  expression  may  aptly 
fall,  are  thus  elaborated  in  every  art.  As  against  every 
looser  and  novel  form,  they  have  the  advantages  first, 
of  being  more  readily  and  steadily  held  in  the  memory, 
where  they  may  gather  new  and  poignant  associations ; 
second,  of  coming  to  us  already  freighted  with  similar 
associations  out  of  the  past;  and  last,  of  compelling 
the  artist,  in  order  that  he  may  fit  his  inspiration  into 
them,  to  purify  it  of  all  irrelevant  substance.  Impa- 
tient artists  rebel  against  forms,  but  wise  ones  either 
accommodate  their  genius  to  them,  until  they  become 
in  the  end  a  second  and  equally  spontaneous  nature,  or 
else  create  new  forms,  as  definite  as  the  old. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  PROBLEM   OF   EVIL    IN  ESTHETICS,  AND    ITS    SOLU- 
TION THROUGH  THE  TRAGIC,  PATHETIC,  AND   COMIC 

WHEN,  in  our  third  chapter,  we  defined  the  purpose 
of  art,  we  indicated  that  it  was  broad  enough  to  include 
the  expression  of  evil,  but  we  did  not  show  in  detail 
how  this  was  possible.  That  is  our  present  theme. 

Art  is  sympathetic  representation ;  the  effort  not 
only  to  reveal  an  object  to  us,  but  to  unite  us  with  it. 
The  artist  finds  no  difficulty  in  accomplishing  this 
purpose  with  reference  to  one  class  of  objects  —  those 
which,  apart  from  portrayal,  we  call  beautiful.  To 
these  we  are  drawn  immediately  because  they  serve 
directly  the  ends  of  life.  Nature  sees  to  it  that  we 
dwell  with  pleasure  on  the  sight  of  healthy  children, 
well-grown  women,  and  bountiful  landscapes.  And  to 
the  representations  of  such  objects  we  are  attracted  by 
the  same  instincts  that  attract  us  to  the  things  them- 
selves. No  special  power  of  art  is  required  that  we 
take  delight  in  them;  the  task  of  the  artist  is  half 
accomplished  before  he  begins.  Yet  the  scope  of  art 
is  wider  than  this,  for  it  represents  evil  as  well  as  good. 
Death  as  well  as  life,  sickness  and  deformity  as  well  as 
health,  suffering  as  well  as  joy,  sin  equally  with  good- 
ness, come  within  its  purview.  And  these  also  it  not 
only  reveals  to  us  but  makes  good  to  know,  so  good 
in  fact  that  they  are  perhaps  the  preferred  objects  of 

100 


The  Problem  of  Evil  in  ^Esthetics        101 

artistic  representation.  But  instead  of  being  able  to 
rely  on  instincts  that  would  draw  us  to  these  objects, 
art  has  to  overcome  those  that  would  lead  us  away 
from  them.  It  has  to  conquer  our  natural  horror  at 
death,  pain  at  suffering,  and  revulsion  against  wicked- 
ness. How  does  it?  That  is  the  problem  of  evil  in 
aesthetics. 

There  are  many  means  by  which  this  problem  is 
solved.  In  the  first  place,  the  mere  fact  that  art  is 
representation  and  not  reality  does  much  toward  over- 
coming any  feelings  of  moral  or  physical  repugnance 
we  might  have  toward  the  objects  represented.  These 
feelings  exist  for  the  sake  of  action ;  hence,  when  action 
is  impossible  —  and  we  cannot  act  on  the  unreal  — 
although  they  may  still  persist,  they  become  less 
strong.  Toward  the  merely  imaginary,  the  practical 
and  moral  attitudes,  which  towards  the  real  would  lead 
to  condemnation  and  withdrawal,  lose  their  relevance 
and  tend  to  disappear.  That  is  one  of  the  advantages 
of  art  over  the  more  immediate  perception  of  life.  It 
is  difficult  to  take  a  purely  aesthetic  attitude  towards 
all  of  life,  to  seek  only  to  get  into  sympathetic  contact 
with  it  for  the  sake  of  an  inner  realization  of  what  it  is ; 
much  of  it  touches  us  too  closely  on  the  side  of  our  prac- 
tical and  moral  interests.  A  certain  man,  for  example, 
does  not  belong  to  our  set,  or  his  ways  are  so  bohemian 
that  it  would  imperil  our  social  position  or  the  safety 
of  our  souls  to  get  acquainted  with  him;  so  we  reject 
him  and  cast  him  into  the  outer  darkness  of  our  dis- 
approval —  or  he  rejects  us.  Such  a  person,  we  feel, 
is  to  be  avoided  or  haply,  if  we  be  saints,  to  be  saved 
from  himself ;  but  not  to  be  accepted  and  understood. 


102  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

And  even  if  we  succeed  in  freeing  ourselves  from  the 
moral  point  of  view,  we  are  still  preoccupied  with  the 
practical,  if  the  man  happens  to  interest  us  commer- 
cially ;  we  have  not  the  time  nor  the  desire  to  see  his 
nature  as  a  whole.  Not  so  in  art.  As  a  character  in 
a  novel,  a  man  cannot  be  employed;  nor  can  it  be  a 
hazard  to  keep  company  with  him;  and  his  soul  is 
surely  beyond  our  saving ;  the  only  thing  left  for  us 
to  do  is  to  sympathize  with  and  try  to  understand  him, 
to  enter  into  communion  with  his  spirit.  By  freeing 
life  from  the  practical  and  moral,  art  gives  the  imag- 
ination full  sway.  This,  to  be  sure,  is  only  a  negative 
force  working  in  the  direction  of  beauty,  yet  is  impor- 
tant none  the  less  because  it  enables  the  more  positive 
influences  to  function  easily. 

One  of  these  is  what  I  would  call  "sympathetic 
curiosity,"  which  may  encompass  all  images  of  life. 
Things  which,  if  met  with  in  life,  would  certainly 
repel,  when  presented  in  image,  simply  excite  our  curios- 
ity to  know.  Of  course  some  are  impelled  by  the  same 
interest  to  get  into  contact  with  all  experience  — 
Homo  sum:  humani  nihil  alienum  a  me  puto  —  yet 
with  the  great  majority  the  impulses  to  withdraw  are 
too  strong.  But  all  have  a  desire  for  further  knowledge 
when  a  mere  idea  of  human  life,  however  repellent,  is 
presented;  for  the  instinct  of  gregariousness,  which 
creates  a  special  interest  in  our  kind,  works  with  full 
force  in  the  mind  to  strengthen  curiosity.  There  is 
no  part  of  human  experience  which  it  does  not  embrace. 
We  can  well  forego  knowledge  of  stars  and  trees,  but 
we  cannot  remain  ignorant  of  anything  human.  As 
the  moth  to  the  flame,  we  are  led,  even  against  our  will, 


The  Problem  of  Evil  in  ^Esthetics        103 

into  all  of  life,  even  the  most  unpleasant.  The  charm 
possessed  by  the  novel  and  unplumbed,  by  such  stories 
as  Jude  the  Obscure,  or  by  the  weird  imaginings  of 
a  Baudelaire,  comes  from  this  source.  It  is  no  mere 
scientific  curiosity,  because  it  includes  that  "conscious- 
ness of  kind,"  which  makes  us  feel  akin  to  all  we  know. 

Sympathetic  curiosity,  however,  seldom  works  alone, 
for  other  interests,  less  worthy  and  therefore  often  un- 
avowed,  usually  cooperate  to  overcome  our  repugnances 
towards  the  unpleasant.  Many  of  our  repugnances 
are  not  simple  and  original  like  those  felt  towards 
death,  darkness,  and  deformity,  but  highly  complex 
products  of  education,  which  may  be  dissolved  by  a 
strong  appeal  to  the  more  primitive  instincts  which 
they  seek  to  repress.  An  artist  may,  for  example, 
through  a  vivid  portrayal,  so  excite  the  animal  lust 
and  cruelty  which  lurk  hidden  in  all  of  us  as  to  make 
the  most  morally  reprehensible  objects  acceptable. 
Nature  has  taken  many  a  revenge  on  civilization 
through  art.  Although  no  one  should  demand  that  these 
appeals  be  entirely  excluded,  yet  when  they  operate 
alone,  without  the  sublimation  of  insight,  they  are 
flagrantly  unsesthetic  in  their  influence,  because  they 
deprive  the  work  of  art  of  its  freedom. 

Another  means  which  the  artist  may  employ  in  order 
to  win  us  is  the  appeal  of  sense.  However  repellent 
be  the  objects  which  he  represents,  if  he  can  clothe 
them  in  a  sensuous  material  which  will  charm  us,  he 
will  have  exerted  a  powerful  countervailing  force.  We 
have  already  had  occasion  to  observe  this  in  our  first 
chapter.  Through  the  call  of  sense  we  are  invited  to 
enter  and  are  made  welcome  at  the  very  threshold  of 


104  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

the  work  of  art.  Engaging  lines,  winsome  colors  and 
tones,  and  compelling  rhythms  can  overcome  almost 
any  repugnance  that  we  might  otherwise  feel  for  the 
subject-matter.  Their  primary  appeals  are  superior 
to  all  the  reservations  of  civilization.  No  wonder  that 
the  stern  moralists  who  would  keep  beauty  for  the 
clean  and  holy  have  been  afraid  of  art !  Yet  the  delight 
of  sense,  because  its  emotional  effect  is  diffused,  does 
not  interfere  with  the  contemplative  serenity  of  art, 
as  unbridled  passion  does ;  it  even  quiets  passion  by 
diverting  the  attention  to  itself;  hence  may  always 
be  employed  by  the  artist.  A  good  example  of  the 
aesthetic  fascination  of  sensation  is  Von  Stuck's 
"Salome"  in  the  Art  Institute  of  Chicago.  For  all 
normal  feeling,  Salome  dancing  with  the  head  of  John 
the  Baptist  is  a  revolting  object ;  yet  how  beautiful  the 
artist  has  made  his  picture  through  the  simple  loveliness 
of  gold  and  red  ! 

It  would  be  a  mistake,  however,  to  infer  the  indiffer- 
ence of  the  subject-matter  in  art.  The  creation  of  a 
work  of  art  is  based  on  a  primary  aesthetic  experience 
of  nature  or  human  life,  and  not  everything  is  capable  of 
producing  such  an  experience  in  all  men.  The  subject 
must  be  one  towards  which  the  artist  or  spectator  is 
able  to  take  the  aesthetic  attitude  of  emotional,  yet 
free,  perception.  Some  people  are  unable  to  lay  aside 
their  moral  prepossessions  towards  certain  phases  of 
life  or  even  towards  representation  of  them;  the  idea 
affects  them  as  would  the  reality.  For  such  people 
even  the  genius  of  a  Beardsley  is  too  feeble  to  create 
an  experience  of  beauty  out  of  the  material  with  which 
he  works.  Or  again,  some  people  cannot  objectify 


The  Problem  of  Evil  in  ^Esthetics        105 

their  sensual  egotistic  impulses  and  feelings ;  for  them 
the  reading  of  a  Boccaccio,  for  example,  is  only  a 
substitute  for  such  feelings,  not  a  means  of  insight 
into  them.  It  requires  a  robust  intellectual  attitude,  a 
predominance  of  mind  over  feeling  and  instinct, 
aesthetically  to  appreciate  some  works  of  art.  But  for 
those  who  can  receive  it,  the  representation  of  any 
phase  of  life  may  afford  an  aesthetic  experience,  may 
create  a  thing  good  to  know,  if  only  it  be  mastered  by 
the  mind  and  embodied  in  a  charming  form. 

The  charm  of  sense  together  with  the  satisfaction  of 
insight  are  sufficient  to  explain  the  conquest  of  evil  by 
art.  Yet  further  means  have  been  employed  —  the 
special  appeals  of  the  tragic,  pathetic,  and  comic. 

What  any  one  may  mean  by  tragic  is  largely  a 
matter  of  personal  definition  or  tradition  ;  yet  there  is, 
I  think,  a  common  essence  upon  which  all  would  agree. 
First,  tragedy  always  involves  the  manful  struggle  of  a 
personality  in  the  pursuit  of  some  end,  at  the  cost  of 
suffering,  perhaps  of  death  and  failure.  The  opposi- 
tion may  come  from  nature,  as  in  The  Grammarian's 
Funeral;  from  fate,  as  in  the  CEdipus;  from  social  and 
political  interests,  as  in  Antigone;  that  is  of  little 
moment ;  it  is  important  solely  that  the  battle  be 
accepted  and  waged  unflinchingly  to  the  issue.  In  this 
ultimate  sense,  most  of  human  life  is  tragic ;  because  it 
involves  a  continual  warfare  with  circumstances,  which 
the  majority  of  people  carry  on  with  a  silent  heroism. 
Originally,  only  the  glorious  and  spectacular  conflicts 
of  great  personalities  were  deemed  worthy  of  represen- 
tation in  art;  but  with  the  growth  of  sympathy  the 
range  of  tragic  portrayal  has  gradually  been  extended 


106  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

over  almost  the  whole  of  human  life.  The  peasant  in 
his  struggle  for  subsistence  against  a  niggardly  soil, 
or  the  patient  woman  who  loses  the  bloom  of  her  youth 
in  the  unremitting  effort  to  maintain  her  children,  are 
tragic  figures. 

Second,  it  is  part  of  the  essence  of  tragedy  that  the 
conflict  should  be  recognized  as  necessary  and  its  issue 
as  inevitable.  In  one  form  or  another,  whether  as 
Greek  or  Christian  or  naturalistic,  fatality  has  re- 
mained an  abiding  element  in  the  idea  of  tragedy. 
The  purpose  or  passion  or  sentiment  which  impels  the 
hero  to  undertake  and  maintain  the  struggle  must  be  a 
part  of  his  nature  so  integral  that  nothing  else  is 
possible  for  him.  "  Ich  kann  nicht  anders"  is  the  cry  of 
every  tragic  personality.  And  the  opposition  which 
he  meets  from  other  persons,  from  social  forces  or 
natural  circumstances,  must  seem  to  be  equally  fateful 
-  must  be  represented  as  issuing  from  a  counter 
determination  or  law  no  less  inescapable  than  the  hero's 
will.  Even  when  the  catastrophe  depends  upon  some 
so-called  accident,  it  must  be  made  to  appear  necessary 
that  our  human  purposes  should  sometimes  be  caught 
and  strangled  in  the  web  of  natural  fact  which  envelops 
them. 

The  reasons  for  our  acceptance  of  tragedy  are  not 
difficult  to  find  and  have  been  noted,  with  more  or  less 
clearness,  by  all  students.  We  accept  it  much  as  the 
hero  accepts  his  own  struggle  —  he  believes  in  the 
values  which  he  is  fighting  for  and  we  sympathetically 
make  his  will  ours.  Moreover,  we  discover  a  special 
value  in  his  courage  which,  we  feel,  compensates  for 
the  evil  of  his  suffering,  defeat,  or  death.  So  long  as 


The  Problem  of  Evil  in  Esthetics        107 

we  set  any  value  on  life,  it  is  impossible  for  us  not  to 
esteem  courage;  for  courage  is  at  once  the  defense 
against  attack  of  all  our  possessions  and  the  source, 
in  personal  initiative  and  aggressive  action,  of  newer 
and  larger  life.  And  any  shrinking  that  we  may  feel 
against  the  sternness  of  the  struggle  is  quenched  both 
by  the  hero's  example  and  by  our  recognition  of  its 
necessity.  Since  we  are  not  participants  of  it,  our 
protest  would  be  futile,  and  even  if  we  played  a  part 
in  it,  we  should  be  as  foolish  as  we  should  be  weak,  not 
to  recognize  that  the  will  which  opposes  us  is  as  in- 
flexible as  our  own—  "such  is  life"  -that  is  our 
ultimate  comment.  An  appreciation  of  tragedy  in- 
volves, therefore,  a  sure  discernment  of  the  essential 
disharmony  of  existence,  yet  at  the  same  time,  a  feel- 
ing for  the  moral  values  which  it  may  create ;  neither 
the  optimist  nor  the  utilitarian  can  enter  into  its 
world. 

There  are,  however,  works  of  art  in  which  sheer  evil, 
without  any  compensating  development  of  character,  is 
portrayed;  where  indeed  the  struggle  may  even  cause 
decay  of  character.  In  Zola's  The  Dram  Shop,  for 
example,  the  story  is  the  tale  of  the  moral  decline, 
through  unfortunate  circumstances  and  vicious  sur- 
roundings, of  the  sweet,  pliant  Gervaise.  Instead  of 
developing  a  resistance  to  circumstances  which  would 
have  made  them  yield  a  value  even  in  defeat,  she  lets 
herself  go  and  is  spoiled  beneath  them.  She  has  no 
friend  to  help  or  guardian  angel  to  save.  We  do  not 
blame  her,  for,  with  her  soft  nature,  she  could  not  do 
otherwise  than  crumble  under  the  hard  press  of  fate; 
neither  can  we  admire  her,  for  she  lacks  the  adamantine 


108  The  Principles  of  .Esthetics 

stuff  of  which  heroes  are  made.  This  is  pathos,  not 
tragedy.  And  just  as  most  of  human  life  involves 
tragedy  in  so  far  as  it  develops  a  strength  to  meet  the 
dangers  which  threaten  it,  so  likewise  it  involves 
pathos,  in  so  far  as  it  seldom  resists  at  every  point,  but 
gives  way,  blighted  without  hope.  Many  a  man  or 
woman  issues  from  life's  conflicts  weaker,  not  stronger ; 
broken,  not  defiant;  petulant,  not  sweetened;  and  at 
the  hour  of  death  there  are  few  heroes.  Yet  there 
may  be  beauty  in  the  story  of  this  human  weakness  and 
weariness.  Whence  comes  it?  How  can  the  repre- 
sentation of  this  sheer  evil  become  a  good?  The 
principle  involved  is  a  simple  one.  Announced  first,  as 
far  as  I  know,  by  Mendelssohn,  it  has  recently  been 
much  more  scientifically  and  penetratingly  analyzed 
by  Lipps,  although  wrongly  applied  by  him  to  the 
tragic  rather  than  the  pathetic.1 

It  is  a  familiar  and  generally  recognized  experience, 
as  Lipps  has  observed,  that  any  threat  or  harm  done 
to  a  value  evokes  in  us  a  heightened  appreciation  of  its 
worth.  Parting  is  a  sweet  sorrow  because  only  then 
do  we  fully  realize  the  worth  of  what  we  are  losing; 
the  beauty  of  youth  that  dies  is  more  beautiful  because 
in  death  its  radiance  shines  the  brighter  in  our  memory. 
A  good  in  contemplation  comes  to  take  the  place  of  a 
lost  good  in  reality.  Just  as  we  hold  on  the  more 
tightly  to  things  that  are  slipping  away  from  us  in  a 
vain  effort  to  keep  them,  so  to  save  ourselves  from  utter 
sorrow,  we  build  up  in  the  imagination  a  fair  image  of 
what  we  have  lost,  free  of  the  dust  of  the  world.  This 
makes  the  peculiar  charm  of  the  delicate  and  fragile,  of 

1  Cf .  Lipps :  Der  Streit  uber  die  Tragodie,  and  fitsthetik,  Bd.  I,  S.  599. 


The  Problem  of  Evil  in  ^Esthetics        109 

weak  things  and  little  things,  of  the  transient  and 
perishable ;  they  awaken  in  us  the  tender,  protective 
impulse  while  they  last,  and  when  they  are  gone  they 
suffer  at  our  hands  an  idealization  which  the  strong 
and  enduring  can  never  receive.  Our  pity  for  them 
mediates  an  increased  love  of  them;  we  mock  at  fate 
which  deprives  us  of  them  by  keeping  them  secure  and 
fairer  in  our  memory. 

As  in  life,  so  in  art.  Beneath  and  around  the  pic- 
tured destruction  and  ruin  there  opens  up  to  us  a  more 
poignant  vision  of  the  loveliness  of  what  was  or  might 
have  been.  At  the  end  of  The  Dram  Shop,  when  Ger- 
vaise  sinks  into  ruin,  we  inevitably  revert  to  the 
beginning  and  see  again,  only  more  intensely,  the 
gentle  girl  that  she  was,  or  else,  going  forward,  we 
imagine  what  she  might  have  been,  if  only  she  had  been 
given  a  chance.  The  form  of  a  possible  good  rises  up 
from  under  the  actual  evil.  The  story  of  oppression 
becomes  the  praise  of  freedom ;  the  picture  of  death,  a 
vision  of  life.  I  know  of  no  finer  example  of  this  in 
all  literature  than  Sophocles'  Ajax.  Ajax  has  offended 
Athena,  so  he,  the  hero  of  the  Grecian  host,  is  seized 
with  the  mad  desire  to  do  battle  with  cattle  and 
sheep.  In  lucid  intervals  he  laments  to  his  wife  the 
shameful  fate  which  has  befallen  him.  How  glorious 
his  former  prowess  appears  lost  in  so  ridiculous  a 
counterfeit !  And  his  despair  creates  its  magic. 

In  almost  all  so-called  tragedies,  true  tragedy  and 
pathos  are  intermingled ;  for  we  feel  both  pity  and 
admiration,  and  the  pity  intensifies  the  admiration. 
The  danger  that  threatens  or  the  disaster  that  over- 
whelms the  values  which  the  hero  embodies  make  us 


110  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

realize  their  worth  the  more.  Throughout  the  Antig- 
one we  admire  the  heroine's  tragic  courage  of  devotion  ; 
but  it  is  at  the  point  when,  just  before  her  death,  she 
laments  her  youth  and  beauty  that  shall  go  fruitless  — 

a\e\pov,  aw/j.ivaiov,  ovre  TOV  ydftav 
p.f.po<i  Aa^ovcrav  oure  iratSetou  Tpo<f>fjs 

that  we  feel  the  fullness  of  strength  that  was  needed  for 
the  sacrifice.  One  might  perhaps  think  this  lament  a 
blemish  of  weakness  in  a  picture  of  fortitude ;  but  the 
impression  is  just  the  opposite,  I  believe ;  for  force  is 
measured  by  what  it  overcomes. 

There  are  so  many  different  theories  of  tragedy  that 
it  would  be  impossible,  were  it  worth  while,  to  embark 
on  a  criticism  of  all  of  them.  There  are  certain  ones, 
however,  which,  because  of  their  wide  acceptance, 
demand  some  attention  at  our  hands.  First,  it  is 
often  assumed  that  a  tragedy  should  represent  the 
good  as  ultimately  triumphing,  despite  suffering  and 
failure.  But  how  can  the  good  triumph  when  the 
hero  fails  and  dies?  Only,  it  is  answered,  if  the  hero 
represents  a  cause  which  may  win  despite  or  even 
because  of  his  individual  doom;  and  it  is  with  this 
cause,  not  with  him,  that  we  chiefly  sympathize.  This 
was  Hegel's  view,  who  demanded  that  the  tragic  hero 
represent  some  universal  interest  which,  when  purged 
of  the  one-sidedness  and  uncompromising  insistence 
of  the  hero's  championing,  may  nevertheless  endure  and 
triumph  in  its  genuine  worth.  In  the  Antigone, 
Hegel's  favorite  example,  the  cause  of  family  loyalty 
finds  recognition  through  the  punishment  of  Creon 
for  the  girl's  death  ;  while  at  the  same  time  the  principle 


The  Problem  of  Evil  in  ^Esthetics        111 

of  the  sovereignty  of  the  state  is  upheld  through  her 
sacrifice.  There  are  many  tragedies  which  conform, 
at  least  partially,  to  this  scheme ;  but  not  all,  hence  it 
cannot  be  a  universal  norm.  In  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
for  example,  although  the  death  of  the  young  people 
serves'  to  bring  about  a  reconciliation  of  their  families, 
the  real  principle  for  which  they  suffered  —  the  right 
of  private  choice  in  matters  of  love  —  is  in  no  way 
furthered  by  the  outcome  of  the  play.  And,  although 
it  is  always  possible  to  universalize  the  good  which  is 
sought  by  any  will,  it  is  not  possible  to  deflect  upon  a 
principle  the  full  intensity  of  our  sympathy,  away  from 
the  individual,  concrete  passion  and  action.  Whenever 
a  great  personality  is  represented,  it  is  his  personal 
suffering  and  fortitude  that  win  at  once  our  pity  and 
our  admiration.  For  private  sorrows,  for  the  ruin  of 
character,  for  the  death  of  those  whom  we  are  made  to 
love,  there  can  be  no  complete  atonement  in  the 
universal ;  because  it  is  with  the  individual  that  we  are 
chiefly  concerned.  No;  the  reconciliation  lies  where 
we  have  placed  it  —  in  tragedy,  in  the  personal  heroism 
of  the  strong  character;  in  pathos,  in  the  vision,  not 
in  the  triumph,  of  the  good. 

The  ordinary  Protestant  theological  theory  of  tragedy 
is  even  more  inadequate  than  the  Hegelian.  For,  by 
assuming  that  there  is  no  genuine  loss  in  the  world, 
that  every  evil  is  compensated  for  in  the  future  lives 
of  the  heroes,  it  takes  away  the  sting  from  their  sacri- 
fice and  so  deprives  them  of  their  crown  of  glory.  It 
makes  every  adventure  a  calculation  of  prudence  and 
every  despair  a  farce.  It  is  remote  from  the  reality 
of  experience  where  men  stake  all  on  a  chance  and, 


The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

instead  of  receiving  the  good  by  an  act  of  grace,  wring 
it  by  blood  and  tears  from  evil. 

On  much  the  same  level  of  thinking  is  the  moralistic 
theory  which  requires  that  the  misfortunes  of  the  hero 
should  be  the  penalty  for  some  fault  or  weakness. 
This  view,  which  has  the  authority  of  Aristotle,  is 
also  based  on  the  doctrine  of  the  justice  of  the  world- 
order.  It  was  pretty  consistently  carried  out  in  the 
classical  Greek  drama;  although  there  suffering  is 
not  exacted  as  an  external  retribution,  but  as  the 
inevitable  consequence  of  the  turbulent  passions  of  the 
characters ;  for  even  the  punishment  for  offenses  against 
the  gods  is  of  the  nature  of  a  personal  revenge  which 
they  take.  Later,  of  course,  when  the  gods  retreated 
into  the  background  of  human  life,  retributive  justice 
was  conceived  more  abstractly.  Now,  it  must  be 
admitted,  I  think,  that  this  idea,  so  deeply  rooted  in  the 
popular  mind,  has  exerted  a  profound  influence  on  the 
drama;  yet  it  cannot  be  applied  universally  without 
sophistry.  To  be  sure,  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  the  young 
people  were  disobedient  and  headstrong;  in  Lear,  the 
old  father  was  foolishly  trustful  of  his  wicked  daughters ; 
these  frailties  brought  about  their  ruin.  But  did  they 
deserve  so  hard  a  fate  as  theirs?  Did  not  Lear  suffer 
as  much  for  his  folly  as  his  daughters  for  their  wicked- 
ness? This  is  always  true  in  life,  and  Shakespeare 
holds  the  mirror  up  to  nature  —  but  is  it  consistent 
with  the  theory  of  retributive  justice  ?  One  can  usually 
trace  back  to  some  element  of  his  nature,  physical  or 
moral,  the  misfortunes  that  befall  an  individual ;  even 
those  which  we  call  accidents,  as  Galton  claimed,  are 
often  due  to  some  inherent  defect  of  attention  which 


The  Problem  of  Evil  in  ^Esthetics        113 

makes  us  fail  to  respond  protectively  at  the  right 
moment.  If  we  take  the  self  to  include  the  entire 
organism,  then  it  remains  true  that  we  cooperate  as  a 
partial  cause  in  all  that  happens  to  us.  Ophelia's 
weak  and  unresisting  brain  must  share  with  the  stresses 
which  surrounded  her  the  responsibility  for  her  mad- 
ness. In  this  sense,  and  in  this  sense  only,  do  we  de- 
serve our  fate,  be  it  good  or  ill.  Yet,  when  interpreted 
in  this  broadest  meaning,  retributive  justice  loses  all 
ethical  significance.  And  the  cosmic  disharmony  ap- 
pears all  the  more  glaring.  It  ceases  to  be  chargeable 
to  an  external  fate  or  God,  to  the  environment  or 
convention,  which  might  perhaps  be  mastered  and 
remolded ;  and  is  seen  pervading  the  nature  of  reality 
itself,  no  accidental  circumstance,  but  essential  evil, 
ineradicable.  The  greatest  tragic  poets  see  it  thus. 
And  then  blame  turns  to  understanding  and  resent- 
ment into  pity. 

Retributive  justice,  as  the  motive  force  of  tragedy, 
has  for  us  lost  its  meaning.  We  no  longer  feel  the 
necessity  of  justifying  the  ways  of  God  to  man,  be- 
cause we  have  ceased  to  believe  that  there  exists  any 
single,  responsible  power.  The  good  is  not  a  preor- 
dained and  automatically  accomplished  fact,  but  an 
achievement  of  finite  effort,  appearing  here  and  there 
in  the  world  when  individuals,  instead  of  contending 
against  each  other,  cooperate  for  their  mutual  ad- 
vantage. 

In  addition  to  the  comic,  there  is  much  artistic 
representation  of  evil  which  can  be  classed  neither  as 
pathetic  nor  as  tragic.  Neither  moral  admiration  nor 
idealization  are  aroused  by  the  characters  portrayed. 


114  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

They  may  be  great  criminals  like  Lady  Macbeth  or 
lago,  or  the  undistinguished  and  disorderly  people  of 
modern  realistic  literature,  yet  in  either  case  we  find 
them  good  to  know.  And  we  do  so,  not  merely  because 
we  enjoy,  as  disinterested  onlookers,  the  spectacle  of 
human  existence,  but  because  the  artist  makes  us 
enter  into  it  and  realize  its  values.  For  even  that 
which  from  the  moral  point  of  view  we  pronounce  evil 
is,  so  long  as  it  maintains  itself,  a  good  thing  from  its 
own  point  of  view.  Every  will,  however  blind  and 
careless,  seeks  a  good  and  finds  it,  if  only  in  hope  and 
the  effort  to  attain.  Through  the  intimacy  of  his 
descriptions  and  often  against  our  resistance,  the  artist 
may  compel  us  to  adopt  the  attitude  of  the  life  which 
he  is  portraying,  constraining  us  to  feel  the  inner 
necessity  of  its  choices,  the  compulsion  of  its  delights. 
It  is  difficult  to  abandon  ourselves  thus  to  sympathy 
with  what  is  wrong  in  life  itself,  because  we  have  in 
mind  the  consequences  and  relations  which  make  it 
wrong;  yet  we  all  do  so  at  times,  whenever  we  let 
ourselves  go,  charmed  by  its  momentary  offering. 
But  in  the  world  of  art  this  is  easier,  because  there  the 
values,  being  merely  represented,  can  have  no  sinister 
effects.  When  great  personalities  are  portrayed,  this 
abandon  is  readiest;  for  the  strength  or  poignancy  of 
their  natures  carries  us  away  as  by  a  whirlwind.  Wit- 
ness Lady  Macbeth  when  she  summons  the  powers  of 
hell  to  unsex  her  for  her  murderous  task,  or  Vanni 
Fucci  in  the  Inferno,1  who  mocks  at  God.  For  the  in- 
stant, we  become  as  they  and  feel  their  ecstasy  of  pride 
and  power  as  our  own.  Yet  the  great  artist  can  awaken 

1  Inferno,  Canto  25,  1-3. 


The  Problem  of  Evil  in  ^Esthetics        115 

this  sympathy  even  for  characters  that  are  small  and 
weak.  In  Gogol's  Dead  Souls,  for  example,  there  are 
no  heroes.  The  most  interesting  characters  are  the 
country  gentlemen  who  return  to  their  estates  planning 
to  write  books  which  will  regenerate  Russia.  But  the 
old  habits  of  life  in  the  remote  district  are  too  strong. 
So,  instead  of  writing,  they  fall  back  into  the  routine 
of  their  ancestors  and  merely  smoke  and  dream.  Here 
are  failure  and  mediocrity ;  yet  so  intimate  is  the  artist's 
story  that  we  not  only  understand  it  all,  but  feel  how 
good  it  is  —  to  dream  our  lives  away.  I  do  not 
doubt  that  in  this  story  there  are  elements  of  pathos 
and  comedy;  yet,  in  general,  the  delineation  is  too 
objective  for  either ;  we  neither  laugh  nor  cry,  but  are 
simply  borne  on,  unresisting,  ourselves  become  a  part 
of  the  silent  tide  of  Russian  life. 

The  problem  of  evil  in  aesthetics  may  finally  be 
solved  by  the  use  of  the  comic.  For  in  comedy  we  take 
pleasure  in  an  object  which,  in  the  broadest  sense,  is  evil. 
In  order  for  an  object  to  be  comical  there  must  be  a 
standard  or  norm,  an  accepted  system,  within  which 
the  object  pretends  but  fails  to  fit,  and  with  reference 
to  which,  therefore,  it  is  evil.  There  must  be  some 
points  of  contact  between  the  object  and  the  standard 
in  order  that  there  may  be  pretense,  but  not  enough 
points  for  fulfillment.  If  we  never  had  any  definite 
expectations  with  reference  to  things,  never  made  any 
demands  upon  them;  if  instead  of  judging  them  by 
our  preconceived  ideas,  we  took  them  just  as  they  came 
and  changed  our  ideas  to  meet  them,  —  there  would 
be  nothing  comical.  Or,  if  everything  fitted  into  our 
expectations  and  was  as  we  planned  it,  then  again  there 


116  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

would  be  nothing  comical.  In  a  world  without  ideas, 
the  comic  could  not  exist.  The  comic  depends  upon 
our  apperceiving  an  object  in  terms  of  some  idea  and 
finding  it  incongruous.  The  most  elementary  illustra- 
tions demonstrate  this.  The  unusual  is  the  original 
comic ;  to  the  child  all  strange  things  are  comical  - 
the  Chinaman  with  his  pigtail,  the  negro  with  his  black 
skin,  the  new  fashion  in  dress,  the  clown  with  his  paint 
and  his  antics.  As  we  get  used  to  things,  and  that 
means  as  we  come  to  form  ideas  of  them  into  which  they 
will  fit,  adjusting  the  mind  to  them,  rather  than  seeking 
to  adjust  them  to  the  mind,  they  cease  to  be  comical. 
So  fashions  in  dress  or  manners  which  were  comical  once, 
become  matters  of  course  and  we  laugh  no  longer. 
Enduringly  comic  are  only  those  objects  that  per- 
sistently create  expectations  and  as  persistently  violate 
them.  Such  objects  are  few  indeed;  but  they  exist, 
and  constitute  the  perennial,  yet  never  wearying, 
stock  in  trade  of  comedy.  But  the  comic  spirit  does  not 
have  to  depend  upon  them  exclusively,  for,  as  life 
changes,  it  constantly  raises  new  expectations  and 
offers  new  objects  which  at  once  provoke  and  fail  to 
meet  them.  Everything,  therefore,  is  potentially 
comical  and,  in  the  course  of  human  history,  few  things 
can  escape  a  laugh ;  some  curious  mind  is  sure,  sooner 
or  later,  to  bring  them  under  a  new  idea  against  which 
they  will  be  shown  up  to  be  absurd.  The  sanctities 
of  religion,  love,  and  political  allegiance  have  not  been 
exempt. 

Why,  if  the  comical  object  is  always  opposed  to  our 
demands,  should  we  take  pleasure  in  it  ?  How  can  we 
be  reconciled  to  things  that  are  admittedly  incongruous 


The  Problem  of  Evil  in  ^Esthetics        117 

with  our  standards?  Why  are  we  not  rather  dis- 
pleased and  angry  with  them?  Investigators  have 
usually  looked  for  a  single  source  of  pleasure  in  the 
comic,  but  of  those  which  have  been  suggested  at  least 
two,  I  think,  contribute  something.  First,  by  adopting 
the  point  of  view  of  the  standard  as  our  own,  identifying 
ourselves  with  it,  and  through  the  contrast  of  ourselves 
with  the  object,  we  may  take  pleasure  in  the  resulting 
exaltation  of  ourselves.  The  pleasure  in  the  comic  is 
often  closely  akin  to  that  which  we  feel  in  distinction 
of  any  kind.  We  feel  ourselves  superior  to  the  object 
at  which  we  laugh.  There  is  pride  in  much  of  laughter 
and  not  infrequently  cruelty,  a  delight  in  the  absurdi- 
ties of  other  men  because  they  exalt  ourselves  as  the 
representatives  of  the  rational  and  normal.  There  is 
often  a  touch  of  malice  even  in  the  laughter  of  the  child. 
Nevertheless,  the  pleasure  in  the  comic  is  still  contem- 
plative, and  so  far  aesthetic,  because  it  is  a  pleasure  in 
perception,  not  in  action.  No  matter  how  evil  be 
the  comic  object,  we  do  not  seek  to  destroy  or  remodel 
it ;  action  is  sublimated  into  laughter. 

But  the  pleasure  in  the  comic  may  arise  through  our 
taking  the  opposite  point  of  view  —  that  of  the  funny 
thing  itself.  Instead  of  upholding  the  point  of  view 
of  the  standard,  we  may  identify  ourselves  with  the 
object.  If  the  comic  spirit  is  oftentimes  the  champion 
of  the  normal  and  conventional,  it  is  as  often  the  mis- 
chief-maker and  rebel.  Whenever  the  maintaining  of 
a  standard  involves  strain  through  the  inhibition  of  in- 
stinctive tendencies,  to  relax  and  give  way  to  impulse 
causes  a  pleasure  which  centers  itself  upon  the  object 
that  breaks  the  tension.  The  intrusive  animal  that 


118  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

interrupts  the  solemn  occasion,  the  child  that  wittingly 
or  not  scoffs  at  our  petty  formalities  through  his  na'ive 
behavior,  win  our  gratitude,  not  our  scorn.  They 
provide  an  opportunity  for  the  welcome  release  of 
nature  from  convention.  And  the  greater  the  strain 
of  the  tension,  the  greater  the  pleasure  and  the  more 
insignificant  the  object  or  event  that  will  bring  relief 
and  cause  laughter.  The  perennial  comic  pleasure  in 
the  risque  is  derived  from  this  source.  There  is  an 
element  of  comic  pleasure  in  the  perpetration  of  any 
mischievous  or  unconventional  act.  Those  things 
which  men  take  most  seriously,  Schopenhauer  has 
said,  namely,  love  and  religion,  and  we  might  add, 
morality,  are  the  most  abundant  sources  of  the  comic, 
because  they  involve  the  most  strain  and  therefore 
offer  the  easiest  chances  for  a  playful  release.  Even 
utter  and  absolute  nonsense  is  comical  because  it  un- 
does all  Kant's  categories  of  mind. 

Hence,  contrary  to  the  theory  of  Bergson,  the  spon- 
taneous as  well  as  the  mechanical  and  rigid  may  be 
comical.  Sometimes  the  same  object  may  be  comical 
from  both  the  points  of  view  which  we  have  specified ; 
this  is  always  true,  as  we  shall  see,  in  the  most  highly 
developed  comedy.  For  example,  we  may  laugh  at 
the  child's  prank  because  it  is  so  absurd  from  the  point 
of  view  of  our  grown-up  expectations  as  to  reasonable 
conduct,  and  at  the  same  time,  taking  the  part  of 
the  child,  rejoice  at  the  momentary  relief  from  them 
which  it  offers  us.  Our  scorn  is  mixed  with  sympa- 
thy. And  oftentimes  the  child  himself  will  hold  both 
points  of  view  at  once,  laughing  at  his  own  absurdity 
and  exulting  nevertheless  in  his  own  freedom.  This  is 


The  Problem  of  Evil  in  ^Esthetics       119 

the  essence  of  slyness.  It  follows,  moreover,  that  a 
thing  which  was  comical  for  one  of  the  reasons  assigned 
may  become  comical  for  the  other,  by  a  simple  change 
in  the  point  of  view  regarding  it.  For  the  behavior 
which  first  pleased  us  because  it  was  unconventional 
tends  itself  to  become  a  new  convention,  with  reference 
to  which  the  old  convention  then  becomes  the  object 
of  a  laughter  which  is  scornful.  The  tables  are  turned  : 
the  rebel  laughs  at  the  king. 

The  foregoing  explanation  of  why  we  find  the  comical 
pleasant  also  explains  why  so  many  of  our  other  pleas- 
ures are  intermixed  with  the  comical  —  why  so  often 
we  not  only  smile  when  we  are  pleased,  but  laugh. 
For,  in  the  case  of  all  except  the  most  elementary 
enjoyments,  our  pleasures  are  connected  with  the  satis- 
faction of  definite  expectations  regarding  the  actions 
or  events  of  our  daily  lives.  But,  owing  to  the  dulling 
effect  of  habit,  the  pleasure  attendant  upon  these 
satisfactions  gradually  becomes  smaller  and  smaller 
or  even  negligible ;  until,  as  a  result,  only  the  novel  and 
surprising  events  which  surpass  our  expectations  give 
us  large  pleasure;  but  these  are  comical.  With  the 
child,  whose  expectations  are  rigid  and  few  in  number 
because  of  his  lack  of  discrimination  and  small  expe- 
rience, almost  all  pleasures,  like  almost  all  events,  are 
of  the  nature  of  surprises.  The  child  almost  always 
laughs  when  he  is  pleased.  The  slang  phrase  "to  be 
highly  tickled"  expresses  with  precision  this  close 
connection  between  laughter  and  pleasure.  Moreover, 
as  the  complexity  of  life  increases,  its  strains  and 
repressions  are  multiplied,  with  the  result  that  any 
giving  way  to  an  impulse  contains  a  slight  element  of 


120  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

the  mischievous  or  ridiculous ;  whence,  for  this  reason 
too,  the  pleasant  is  also  the  comical.  In  fact,  most 
of  the  pleasures  of  highly  complex  and  reflective  persons 
are  tinged  with  laughter. 

We  expect  art  to  accomplish  three  great  results  — 
reconciliation,  revelation,  and  sympathy.  So  far  we 
have  shown  how  comic  art  may  accomplish  the  first; 
we  have  yet  to  prove  how  it  may  accomplish  the  rest. 
In  his  book  Le  Rire,  Bergson  has  expressed  the  view 
that  comedy  is  explicitly  falsifying  and  unsympathetic. 
As  to  the  former  charge,  we  can,  I  think,  convince 
ourselves  of  the  opposite  if  we  examine  certain  of  the 
more  obvious  methods  of  comedy,  particularly  those 
which  might  seem  at  first  sight  to  lend  support  to  his 
contention.  One  of  the  most  common  of  these  is  exag- 
geration. The  simplest  example  is  caricature,  where 
certain  features  of  an  object  are  purposely  exaggerated. 
The  effect  is,  of  course,  comical,  because  we  expect 
the  normal  and  duly-proportioned.  What  a  manifest 
falsification,  one  might  assert !  Yet  just  the  opposite 
is  the  actual  result.  For  every  good  caricaturist  selects 
for  exaggeration  prominent  and  characteristic  traits, 
through  which  by  the  very  emphasis  that  is  placed 
upon  them,  the  nature  of  the  individual  is  better  under- 
stood. Another  favorite  method  is  abstraction.  Cer- 
tain traits  are  presented  as  if  they  were  the  whole 
man.  We  get  the  typical  comic  figures  of  the  novel 
and  drama;  the  physician  who  is  only  a  physician; 
the  lawyer  who  injects  the  legal  point  of  view  into 
every  circumstance  of  life ;  the  lover  or  the  miser  who 
is  just  love  or  greed ;  the  people  who,  as  in  Dickens, 
meet  every  situation  with  the  same  phrase  or  attitude. 


The  Problem  of  Evil  in  ^Esthetics 

This,  too,  looks  like  a  plain  falsification  of  human 
nature,  because,  however  strong  be  the  professional 
bias  or  however  overmastering  the  ruling  passion,  real 
people  are  always  more  complex  and  many-sided,  having 
other  modifying  and  counteracting  elements  of  char- 
acter which  prevent  their  speech  and  actions  from  being 
completely  monotonous  and  mechanical.  Neverthe- 
less, we  can  again  acquit  the  comic  writer  of  falsifi- 
cation, because  we  understand  the  method  which  he  is 
employing,  the  trick  of  his  trade.  He  deceives  no  one. 
On  the  contrary,  he  enables  us  to  perceive  the  logic 
of  certain  elementary  springs  of  character.  Follow- 
ing the  method  of  the  experimentalist,  he  selects  cer- 
tain aspects  from  the  total  complexity  of  a  phenomenon 
and  shows  how  they  work  when  isolated  from  the  rest. 
And,  like  the  man  of  science,  he  provides  insight  into 
the  normal,  because  we  can  accept  his  results  as  at 
least  partially  or  approximately  true.  Art  of  this 
kind  is  abstract  and  therefore  less  valuable  than  the 
portrayal  of  the  concrete ;  yet  only  the  dogmatist  who 
insists  on  the  restriction  of  art  to  the  individual  can 
reject  it. 

There  is,  however,  a  third  common  method  of  comical 
representation  which  neither  exaggerates  nor  abstracts, 
but  preserves  the  concreteness  of  the  finest  art  —  we 
may  call  it  the  method  of  contrast.  It  consists  in 
exhibiting  the  contrast  between  the  actual  conduct  of 
men  and  women  and  the  standard,  —  either  that  which 
they  themselves  profess  to  live  up  to  or  our  own,  which 
we  impose  upon  them.  Their  pretenses  are  unmasked 
or  their  absurdities  shown  up  against  the  ideal  of 
reasonableness.  We  behold  the  bourgeois  who  would 


The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

be  a  gentleman  remain  bourgeois  and  the  women  who 
would  be  scholars  remain  women.  Success  in  comedy 
of  this  kind  depends  upon  possessing  the  ability  to 
formulate  the  implicit  assumptions  underlying  the 
behavior  of  the  people  portrayed  or  to  make  one's 
own  standards  with  reference  to  them  valid  for  the 
spectator.  Here  is  no  falsification,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, a  vivid  revelation  of  the  truth;  because,  just 
as  by  placing  two  colors  in  contrast  with  one  another 
the  hue  of  each  is  intensified,  so  by  setting  man  in 
relief  against  the  background  of  what  he  ought  to  be, 
we  perceive  his  real  nature  more  sharply.  As  the  child 
dressed  like  a  grown-up  appears  all  the  more  childish 
for  his  garb,  so  man  appears  the  more  human  for  his 
pretenses.  To  be  sure,  in  order  to  increase  the  comical 
effect,  this  method  is  often  employed  in  conjunction 
with  that  of  exaggeration.  The  Athenian  democracy 
was  probably  not  quite  so  stupid  as  Aristophanes 
represents  it ;  the  average  Britisher  is  not  so  philistine 
as  Shaw  paints  him.  Yet  the  measure  of  exaggeration 
may  be  small  and  we  readily  discount  it.  And  finally, 
whereas  in  simple  representation  there  is  a  revelation 
of  the  object  only,  in  comical  representation  there  is  a 
two-fold  revelation,  —  of  the  ideal  and  of  the  in- 
congruous reality.  The  former  is  always  indirectly 
revealed ;  for,  as  we  know,  the  very  existence  of  the 
comic  depends  upon  it.  The  man  who  laughs,  his 
notion  of  the  right  and  the  reasonable,  his  attitude 
towards  the  world  and  life,  become  manifest  through 
the  things  which  he  laughs  at.  Only  a  man  of  a  certain 
kind,  with  a  certain  sympathy  and  antipathy,  could 
laugh  as  he  laughs.  The  comic  writer,  however 


The  Problem  of  Evil  in  ^Esthetics        123 

much  of  a  scoffer  and  a  skeptic,  and  however  much  he 
may  deny  it,  is  always  an  idealist.  And  it  is  for  the 
revelation  of  themselves  as  much  as  for  the  revelation 
of  the  people  whom  they  portray  that  we  value  the  work 
of  a  Swift,  a  Voltaire,  or  a  Thackeray. 

Another  charge  which  has  been  brought  against  the 
comic  is  that  it  is  unsympathetic.  Its  attitude,  it  is 
said,  is  one  of  externality,  opposed  therefore  to  the 
intimacy  necessary  for  the  complete  aesthetic  reaction. 
Whereas  simple  aesthetic  representation  places  us  within 
the  object  itself,  comical  representation  only  exhibits  a 
relation  between  it  and  an  idea.  We  judge  it  from  our 
point  of  view,  not  from  its  own.  The  pleasure  in  pride 
and  superiority  which  we  feel  towards  the  comical 
object  seems  also  inconsistent  with  sympathy ;  for  sym- 
pathy would  create  a  fellow  feeling  with  it,  and  place 
us  not  above,  but  on  a  level  with  it.  If  we  do  sym- 
pathize, the  comic  object  ceases  to  be  comical  and 
becomes  pathetic.  We  can  find  the  follies  and  sins 
of  men  comical  just  so  long  as  we  do  not  sympathize 
with  the  sufferings  which  they  entail.  There  is  nothing 
comical  that  may  not  also  become  pathetic ;  and  the 
difference  depends  exactly  on  the  presence  or  absence 
of  sympathy.  Nothing,  for  example,  is  more  pathetic 
than  death ;  yet  if  you  keep  yourself  free  of  its  sorrow, 
there  is  nothing  more  comical  —  that  man,  a  little 
lower  in  his  own  estimation  than  the  angels,  should 
come  to  this,  a  lump  of  clay. 

It  is  unquestionably  true  that  a  free,  disinterested 
attitude  is  essential  to  comedy.  You  must  not  let 
yourself  be  carried  away  by  any  feeling;  if  you  are 
over-serious  you  cannot  laugh;  you  must  keep  to 


124  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

reflection  and  comparison.  Yet  this  attitude  is  not 
utterly  destructive  of  all  feeling.  Man  is  complex 
enough  at  once  to  feel  and  to  reflect.  He  can  pity  as 
well  as  laugh.  The  pathetic  and  the  comic  are  con- 
stantly conjoined  —  witness  our  feeling  towards  Don 
Quixote  or  towards  any  of  the  great  characters  of 
Thackeray  —  we  do  not  know  whether  to  laugh  or  to 
cry.  And  in  the  most  effective  comedy,  the  standard 
applied  to  the  comical  object  is  not  foreign,  but  rather, 
as  we  have  observed,  the  implicit  standard  of  the 
object  itself,  discernible  only  by  the  most  intimate 
acquaintance  with  it.  The  sting  of  laughter  comes 
from  our  acceptance  of  it  as  valid  for  ourselves ;  we 
blush  and  join  in  the  laugh  at  ourselves.  The  mis- 
chievous-comic, moreover,  depends  directly  upon  sym- 
pathy; for  it  requires  that  we  take  the  point  of  view 
of  the  funny  thing;  our  pleasure  in  it  implies  a  secret 
sympathy  for  it  —  we  hold  it  up  to  a  standard,  yet  all 
the  time  are  in  sympathy  with  its  rebellion.  When  we 
laugh  at  the  prank  of  the  child,  love  is  mixed  with  the 
laugh.  The  dual  nature  of  man  as  at  once  a  partisan 
of  convention  and  of  the  impulses  that  it  seeks  to 
regulate,  is  nowhere  better  illustrated  than  hi  the 
comic.  Finally,  disinterestedness  is  not  peculiar  to 
comedy ;  for  it  pervades  all  art.  Feeling  must  be 
dominated  by  reflection ;  even  pathos  demands  this, 
for,  if  we  lose  ourselves  in  sorrowful  feeling,  no  fair 
image  can  arise  and  steady  us. 

There  is,  however,  much  comedy  that  is  obviously 
unsympathetic,  even  hostile.  There  is  satire,  which 
condemns,  as  well  as  humor  which  pardons.  The 
one  blames  the  unexpected  and  unconventional,  the 


The  Problem  of  Evil  in  ^Esthetics 

other  sympathizes  with  it.  Comedy  is  either  biting 
or  kindly.  The  one  is  moralistic  and  reformatory  in  its 
aim,  the  other  is  aesthetic  and  contemplative.  Because 
of  its  failure  in  sympathy,  satirical  comedy  is  incomplete 
as  art.  It  provides  insight  and  pleasure  in  the  object, 
but  no  union  with  it.  It  does  not  attain  to  beauty, 
which  is  free  and  reconciling.  Kindly  comedy  or 
humor,  on  the  other  hand,  is  full  beauty,  combining 
sympathy  with  judgment,  abandon  with  reflection. 
Nevertheless,  satire  tends  inevitably  towards  humor. 
For  what  we  laugh  at  gives  us  pleasure,  and  what 
pleases  us  we  must  inevitably  come  to  like,  and  what 
we  like  cannot  long  fail  to  win  our  sympathy.  I  do  not 
think  that  even  a  Swift  or  a  Voltaire  could  have  been 
irreconcilably  opposed  to  a  world  which  offered  them  so 
much  merriment.  The  satire,  which  begins  in  moral 
fervor,  must  end  in  understanding.  The  bond  that 
binds  us  to  our  fellows  is  too  strong  to  be  broken  by  the 
aloofness  of  our  condemnation.  The  same  intelligence 
that  discerns  the  incongruity  between  what  men  ought 
to  be  and  what  they  are,  cannot  fail  to  penetrate  the 
impelling  reasons  for  the  failure.  Only  in  humor  is 
sympathetic  insight  complete.  Satire  has  the  tem- 
poral usefulness  of  a  practical  expedient,  humor  the 
eternal  value  of  beauty. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  STANDARD  OF  TASTE 

OUR  interest  in  art  is  seldom  a  matter  of  mere  feeling 
or  appreciation ;  usually  it  is  a  matter  of  judgment  as 
well.  Beginning  in  feeling,  the  aesthetic  experience 
passes  over  into  comparison  and  estimation  —  into 
criticism,  and  there  finds  its  normal  completion.  This, 
which  is  evidently  true  of  the  aesthetic  life  of  artists 
and  connoisseurs,  is  true  also  of  average  men.  We 
all  enjoy  the  beautiful  in  silence,  but  afterwards  we 
want  to  talk  about  it  to  our  friends.  If  conversation 
about  art  were  suppressed,  the  interest  in  it  would 
hardly  survive.  On  this  side,  the  enjoyment  of  art 
is  intensely  sociable,  for  to  the  civilized  man  socia- 
bility means  discourse. 

But,  as  Kant  pointed  out,  it  is  characteristic  of  con- 
versation about  art  that  the  participants  try  to  reach 
agreement  in  their  judgments  without  acknowledging 
common  principles  with  reference  to  which  disputes 
can  be  decided.  And  yet,  since  no  man  is  content  to 
hold  an  opinion  all  by  himself,  but  each  tries  to  per- 
suade the  others  of  the  validity  of  his  own  judgment, 
it  would  seem  as  if  there  must  be  some  axioms  or 
postulates  admitted  by  all.  Hence  what  Kant  called 
the  antinomy  of  taste :  Thesis  —  the  judgment  of 
taste  is  not  based  on  principles,  for  otherwise  we  would 
determine  it  by  proofs ;  antithesis  —  the  judgment  of 

126 


The  Standard  of  Taste  127 

taste  is  based  on  principles,  for  otherwise,  despite  our 
disagreements,  we  should  not  be  quarreling  about  it. 

In  accordance  with  this  situation,  two  opposed  theo- 
ries of  criticism  have  always  existed.  On  the  one  hand, 
in  face  of  the  apparent  lawlessness  •  of  beauty,  some 
thinkers  have  believed  that  there  exist  principles  which 
can  be  applied  to  works  of  art  to  test  their  beauty  with 
a  certainty  equal  to  that  of  the  principles  of  logic  in 
their  application  to  inferences.  Lessing,  for  example, 
in  the  Hamburgische  Dramaturgic  wrote  that  the  laws 
laid  down  by  Aristotle  in  the  Poetics  were  as  certain 
in  their  application  to  the  drama  as  Euclid's  Elements 
in  geometry.  This  comparison  is  a  forcible  statement 
of  belief  in  the  existence  of  aesthetic  standards,  held 
by  the  entire  classical  tradition,  and  still  held  by 
those  who  are  spiritually  akin  to  it,  although  of  course 
no  one  to-day  would  claim  —  and  when  it  came  to 
details  Lessing  himself  did  not  claim  —  that  the  judg- 
ment of  Aristotle  or  of  any  one  else  is  infallible.  To-day 
those  who  believe  in  the  possibility  of  rational  aesthetic 
criticism  think  that  reflection  upon  the  purpose  and 
methods  of  the  arts  results  in  the  formulation  of  broad 
principles  by  means  of  which  judgments  of  taste  can 
be  appraised  and  a  community  of  taste  achieved. 
These  principles,  they  would  admit,  are  more  difficult 
of  application  than  the  simpler  logical  rules,  owing  to 
the  greater  subtlety  and  complexity  of  art,  yet,  when 
found,  have  an  equal  validity  within  their  own  field. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  view  that  "there  is  no  dis- 
puting about  tastes"  has  never  lacked  adherents. 
According  to  this  view,  criticism  can  be  only  a  report 
of  personal,  enthusiastic  appreciation  or  repugnance 


128  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

without  claim  to  universality.  Anatole  France,  surely 
a  master  of  such  criticism,  has  expressed  this  convic- 
tion as  follows:  "L'estetique  ne  repose  sur  rien  de 
solide.  C'est  un  chateau  en  Fair.  On  veut  1'appuyer 
sur  1'ethique.  Mais  il  n'y  a  pas  d'ethique.  II  n'y  a  pas 
de  sociologie"  .  .  .  And  again,  in  the  same  preface  to 
La  Vie  Litter  air  e:  "Pour  fonder  la  critique,  on  parle 
de  tradition  et  de  consentement  universel.  II  n'y  en 
a  pas.  L'opinion  presque  general,  il  est  vrai,  favorise 
certains  ceuvres.  Mais  c'est  en  vertu  d'un  prejuge, 
et  nullement  par  choix  et  par  effet  d'une  preference 
spontane.  Les  oeuvres  que  tout  le  monde  admire 
sont  celles  que  personne  n'examine."  Although  the 
classic  view  is,  I  think,  nearer  the  truth,  let  us  examine 
the  arguments  that  may  be  advanced  in  favor  of  the 
impressionistic  theory,  as  it  has  been  called.  What  is 
there  about  aesthetic  appreciation  that  makes  it  seem- 
ingly so  recalcitrant  to  law  ? 

First,  every  aesthetic  experience  is  unique,  and  there- 
fore, it  is  claimed,  incomparable.  Art  is  the  expres- 
sion of  personality,  and  personality  is  always  indi- 
vidual. But  unique  things  are,  in  the  end,  incapable 
of  classification,  hence  are  not  amenable  to  general 
laws  or  principles.  Of  course,  works  of  art  can  be 
classified  by  following  some  abstract  characteristic, 
arranged  in  a  series  according  as  this  quality  is  realized 
in  them  to  a  greater  or  less  degree ;  but,  in  so  far  as  a 
work  is  beautiful,  it  contains  at  least  one  quality  not 
possessed  by  other  works,  the  quality  that  gives  it  its 
distinctive  flavor,  —  which  is,  indeed,  its  beauty.  The 
impressionist  would  admit,  for  example,  that  in  intel- 
lectual power  Keats's  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  is  inferior  to 


The  Standard  of  Taste  129 

Wordsworth's  Intimations  ;  also  that  it  lacks  the  moral 
grandeur  of  the  latter ;  but  would  claim,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  in  saying  this,  one  is  far  from  judging  the 
beauty  of  Keats's  poem,  because  that  is  completely 
lacking  in  Wordsworth.  So  far  as  the  poem  is  beauti- 
ful, it  is  unique;  hence  you  get  no  farther  with  it 
through  comparison  with  some  other  poem.  You 
either  appreciate  it  absolutely  or  you  do  not;  if  you 
do,  well  and  good ;  you  may  then  write  a  prose  poem 
about  it,  if  you  desire,  and  so  communicate  some  of 
your  feeling  for  it  to  another  person ;  if  you  do  not 
appreciate  it,  no  one  can  blame  you  or  quarrel  with 
you;  all  that  any  one  can  do  is  to  invite  you  to  read 
again,  and,  perhaps  through  his  eloquence,  seek  to 
inspire  you  with  his  own  enthusiasm.  Every  work  of 
art  is  superlative.  Just  as  the  lover  thinks  his  sweet- 
heart the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world,  so  he 
who  appreciates  a  work  of  art  finds  it  supreme.  And 
among  superlatives  there  is  no  comparison,  no  better 
or  worse. 

From  another  point  of  view,  moreover,  the  aesthetic 
experience  seems  unfavorable  to  comparison  and  classi- 
fication. For  a  work  of  art  demands  a  complete 
abandon  of  self,  an  entire  absorption  in  it  of  attention 
and  emotion.  Every  picture  has  a  frame,  and  every 
other  work  of  art  an  ideal  boundary  to  keep  you  in  its 
world.  Beyond  the  frame  you  shall  not  go;  beyond 
the  stage  you  shall  not  pass ;  beyond  the  outline  of  the 
statue  you  shall  not  look.  And  if  you  do  pass  beyond, 
you  have  lost  the  full  intensity  and  flower  of  the  ex- 
perience; and  whatever  comparisons  you  then  make 
will  not  concern  its  original  and  genuine  beauty. 


130  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

Every  work  of  art  is  jealous;  to  appreciate  it  aright, 
you  must  for  the  moment  appreciate  it  singly,  without 
thought  of  another.  Finally,  the  impressionist  or 
skeptic  would  maintain  that  an  alleged  aesthetic  prin- 
ciple would  necessarily  be  abstracted  from  extant  works 
of  art;  hence  could  not  be  applied  to  new  art.  A 
thing  which  does  not  belong  within  a  class  cannot  be 
judged  by  principles  governing  that  class.  In  so  far, 
therefore,  as  a  work  of  art  is  original,  it  must  frustrate 
any  attempt  to  judge  it  by  traditional,  historical 
standards  —  and  what  other  standards  are  there  ? 

Although  the  two  facts  of  the  aesthetic  experience  — 
its  uniqueness  and  claim  to  complete  sympathy  —  upon 
which  the  skeptical  opinion  can  be  based,  are  un- 
doubted, the  inferences  deduced  from  them  do  not 
follow.  If  they  did  follow,  the  aesthetic  experience 
would  be  fundamentally  different  from  every  other 
type ;  it  would  be  totally  atomic  and  discrete,  instead 
of  fluid  and  continuous  like  the  rest.  But  its  apparent 
discreteness  is  due  to  a  failure  to  distinguish  between 
the  silent,  unobtrusive  working  of  comparison  and  the 
more  obvious  and  self-conscious  working.  When  rapt 
in  the  contemplation  of  a  work  of  art,  I  may  seemingly 
have  no  thought  for  other  works;  relative  isolation 
and  circle-like  self-completeness  are  characteristic^  of 
the  aesthetic  experience ;  yet,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
completeness  of  my  reaction  and  the  measure  of  my 
delight  and  absorption  are  partly  determined  by  the 
accordance  of  the  given  work  of  art  with  a  certain 
expectation  or  set  of  mind  with  reference  to  objects  of 
its  sort.  I  can  consent  fully  to  the  will  of  the  artist 
only  if  he  has  first  consented  to  my  will  as  expressed 


The  Standard  of  Taste  131 

in  other  works  which  I  have  enjoyed  and  praised.  The 
situation  in  aesthetics  is  no  different  from  that  which 
exists  in  any  other  field  of  values;  through  many 
experiences  of  good  things  I  come  to  form  a  type  or 
standard  of  what  such  things  should  be  like;  and,  if 
any  new  thing  of  the  kind  is  presented  to  me,  I  cannot 
be  so  well  pleased  with  it  if  it  does  not  conform.  The 
type  may  never  be  formulated  by  me  explicitly,  yet  it 
will  operate  none  the  less.  The  formation  of  what  is 
called  good  taste  occurs  by  exactly  this  process.  The 
first  work  of  art  that  I  see,  if  it  please  me,  becomes  my 
first  measure.  If  I  see  a  second,  in  order  to  win  my 
approval,  it  will  either  have  to  satisfy  the  expectation 
aroused  by  the  first,  or  else  surpass  it.  In  the  latter 
case,  a  standard  somewhat  different  from  the  old  is 
created  through  the  new  experience ;  and,  when  I 
have  acquired  a  large  acquaintance  with  works  of  art, 
there  grows  up  a  standard  which  is  the  resultant  of 
all  of  them  —  a  type  or  schema  no  longer  associated 
with  particular  works.  Sometimes,  however,  it  hap- 
pens that  the  standard  continues  to  be  embodied  in 
some  one  or  few  works  which,  because  of  outstanding 
excellence,  serve  as  explicit  paradigms  governing  judg- 
ment ;  such  works  are  classics  in  the  true  sense.  And 
the  impressionist  is  certainly  wrong  in  his  contention 
that  the  aesthetic  appreciation  of  a  work  of  art  excludes 
the  recall  of  other  works  and  conscious  comparison 
with  them.  It  is  only  when  appreciation  is  of  the  more 
naive  sort  that  this  is  the  case.  The  trained  observer, 
on  seeing  one  of  Vermeer's  pictures,  for  example,  can- 
not fail  to  think  of  other  works  of  the  same  artist ;  and, 
if  he  is  learned  in  the  history  of  art,  he  may  even  recall 


132  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

the  whole  development  of  Dutch  painting.  For  the 
moment,  perhaps,  at  the  beginning,  the  single  work 
will  completely  absorb  the  attention ;  but,  as  we 
linger  in  appreciation  and  reflect  upon  it,  our  memory 
is  sure  to  work.  And  the  process  of  memory  and  com- 
parison cannot  be  excluded  on  the  ground  that  it  is 
an  external,  irrelevant  context  to  appreciation;  for 
it  actually  functions  to  determine  the  degree  of  pleas- 
ure and  absorption  in  a  work  of  art.  Moreover,  this 
process  of  memory  and  comparison  is  not  confined  to 
the  individual  observer;  it  is  social  and  historical  as 
well.  All  art  movements  are  inspired  by  the  desire 
to  improve  on,  or  to  create  something  different  from, 
the  conserved  tradition.  The  process  of  creation  itself 
involves  comparison  and  the  recognition  of  a  standard. 
And  for  our  civilization  at  any  rate  these  movements 
are  international.  They  are  not  the  products  of 
isolated  discrete  groups,  impenetrable  to  each  other, 
but  of  a  relatively  universal,  continuous  experience. 

As  for  the  uniqueness  of  aesthetic  value,  that,  to  be 
sure,  is  a  fact;  yet  uniqueness  is  never  the  whole  of 
any  object.  Those  aspects  which  ally  it  with  other 
things  are  just  as  genuinely  its  own  as  those  which 
differentiate  it  from  them ;  they  equally  are  a  part  of 
its  beauty.  The  attempt  to  separate  any  part  of  a 
work  of  art  from  the  rest  as  "the  real  part"  is  an  un- 
warranted and  arbitrary  dismemberment.  The  work 
is  whole,  and  beauty  belongs  to  it  as  whole.  Hence, 
when,  through  comparison,  you  attend  to  the  qualities 
that  are  shared  with  other  works,  you  are  still  judging 
the  reality  and  beauty  of  the  object,  quite  as  much  as 
when  you  seek  to  taste  its  unique  flavor.  A  competent 


The  Standard  of  Taste  133 

judgment  can  neglect  no  aspect.  The  judgment  that 
a  work  of  art  is  better  or  worse  than  another  in  some 
general  aspect  touches  it  just  as  surely  as  the  feeling 
for  its  distinctiveness.  And  if  it  be  true  that  so  far 
as  things  are  unique  they  are  all  on  a  level,  it  is  equally 
true  that  so  far  as  they  are  not  unique  they  are  ca- 
pable of  being  serialized,  and  our  total  judgment  upon 
them  must  follow  the  lines  of  comparison. 

It  is  impossible,  therefore,  not  to  compare  works  of 
art  one  with  another.  We  will  concede  to  the  impres- 
sionist that  anything  which  anybody  finds  beautiful 
is  beautiful  momentarily;  but  we  must  insist  on  the 
everyday  fact  that,  because  of  the  operation  of  the 
standard  as  a  result  of  growing  experience  in  art,  what 
once  seemed  beautiful  often  ceases  to  seem  so.  And 
we  must  also  insist  that  among  the  things  surviving  as 
beautiful  we  inevitably  set  up  a  hierarchy,  a  scale.  A 
plurality  of  values,  each  unique  and  in  its  own  way 
indispensable  to  a  complete  world  of  values,  is  not  in- 
consistent with  relations  of  higher  and  lower  among 
them.  The  impressionist  has  taught  us  to  love  variety 
and  to  renounce  the  bigotry  of  the  old  refusal  to  accept 
anything  short  of  the  highest.  But  in  aesthetics  —  and 
in  ethics  too,  I  believe  —  the  standpoint  of  Spinoza 
rules :  "God  is  revealed  in  the  mouse  as  well  as  in  the 
angel,  although  less  in  the  mouse  than  in  the  angel ;" 
and,  I  should  add,  the  revelation  through  the  humbler 
mouse  is  necessary  to  a  complete  revelation  of  God, 
that  is,  of  the  Good.  Or,  as  Nietzsche  said,  "Vieler 
Edlern  naemlich  bedarf  es,  dass  es  Adel  gebe!"  Our 
appreciation  of  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  does  not 
prevent  us  from  appreciating  Alice  in  Wonderland, 


134  The  Principles  of  Esthetics 

just  as  our  esteem  for  the  man  does  not  hinder  our 
feeling  for  the  peculiar  charm  of  the  child. 

What  takes  place  through  the  process  of  comparison 
is  this :  we  come  increasingly  to  realize  what  we  want 
of  art.  Every  artist  seeks  to  express  something  in 
terms  of  the  material  with  which  he  works.  But  it 
is  only  by  experimenting  with  his  medium  that  he 
learns  what  he  can  and  what  he  cannot  do ;  and  it  is 
only  by  constant  hospitable,  yet  discriminating  ap- 
preciation by  us  spectators  that  we,  in  our  turn,  dis- 
cover what  to  demand  of  him  and  commend.  Con- 
sider, for  example,  the  history  of  painting.  That  we 
want  of  a  picture,  sometimes  the  delineation  of  emotion 
and  action,  yes;  but  above  all  and  always,  the  repre- 
sentation of  visible  nature,  with  space  and  atmosphere 
and  light  —  this  purpose  has  been  developed  slowly  and 
as  the  result  of  many  experiments  and  comparisons. 
But  having  won  it,  we  are  secure  in  it.  We  shall  still 
appreciate  the  beauty  of  the  primitives  and  academics, 
but  we  shall  not  be  able  again  to  prefer  them  to  the 
plein-airistes.  Or  recall  the  development  of  English 
poetry.  We  still  admit  the  contribution  of  Dry  den 
and  Pope,  but  we  shall  never  have  to  fight  over  again 
the  battle  won  by  Wordsworth  and  his  contemporaries 
for  imagination  and  emotion.  Our  conception  of  the 
purpose  of  poetry  has  been  enriched  by  an  insight  that 
we  cannot  permanently  lose.  There  are,  to  be  sure, 
retrograde  movements  in  the  arts  —  like  the  Pre- 
Raphaelite  movement  in  painting  —  but  they  are  soon 
recognized  as  such. 

Now  with  reference  to  the  purpose  of  art  to  express 
in  a  given  material,  there  are,  I  think,  a  few  general 


The  Standard  of  Taste  135 

principles  of  judgment  applying  to  all  the  arts,  implic- 
itly or  explicitly  recognized  in  criticism,  and  capable 
of  formulation.  First,  the  complete  use  of  the  medium. 
We  prefer,  other  things  being  equal,  the  work  of  art 
that  has  fully  exploited  the  expressive  possibilities  of 
its  medium  to  one  that  has  failed  to  do  so.  As  an 
illustration,  I  would  cite  the  almost  universal  con- 
demnation, at  the  present  time,  of  neo-classical  sculp- 
ture, in  which  the  touch  values  of  the  surfaces  of 
statues  were  destroyed.  Of  course  some  compensating 
gain  may  be  claimed  —  a  greater  visual  purity ;  yet,  as 
we  shall  see,  from  the  point  of  view  of  expression,  the 
gain  was  negligible  compared  with  the  loss.  So  like- 
wise, unless  the  vers-libristes  can  show  some  positive 
gain  in  expression,  —  a  power  to  do  something  that 
normal  verse  cannot  do,  their  work  must  rank  lower 
than  normal  verse,  which  makes  fuller  use  of  the 
rhythmic  possibilities  of  language. 

Second,  the  unique  use  of  the  material.  What  we 
want  of  art  depends,  not  only  on  comparison  between 
works  of  art  belonging  to  the  same  genre,  but  on  com- 
parison of  the  purposes  of  different  genres,  indeed  of 
the  different  arts  themselves.  What  we  want  of  paint- 
ing depends  upon  what  we  want  of  sculpture;  what 
we  want  of  poetry  depends  upon  what  we  want  of 
painting  and  music.  We  compare  picture  with  pic- 
ture ;  but  equally  we  compare  picture  with  statue  and 
poem.  We  do  not  want  the  sculptor  to  try  to  do  what 
the  painter  can  do  better,  and  vice- versa ;  or  the  poet 
to  encroach  on  the  domains  proper  to  the  musician  and 
painter.  We  do  not  want  poetry  to  be  merely  imagistic 
or  merely  musical  when  we  have  another  art  that  can 


136  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

give  us  much  better  pictures  and  still  another  that  can 
give  us  much  better  music  than  any  word-painting  or 
word-music.  When  we  read  a  poem,  we  do  not  want 
to  be  made  to  think  how  much  better  the  same  thing 
could  be  done  in  a  different  medium.  There  is  nothing 
so  salutary  in  keeping  an  art  to  its  proper  task  as  a 
flourishing  condition  of  the  other  arts.  Here  the  great 
example  is  France,  where  the  limitations  of  the  different 
arts  have  been  best  recognized  all  the  while  the  highest 
level  of  perfection  has  been  reached  in  many  arts 
contemporaneously . 

Third,  the  perfect  use  of  the  medium  in  the  effort  to 
fulfill  the  artistic  purpose  of  sympathetic  representa- 
tion —  the  power  to  delight  the  senses  and  create  sym- 
pathy for  the  object  expressed,  on  the  one  hand,  and 
the  range  of  the  vision  of  the  object,  on  the  other ;  the 
depth  and  the  breadth  of  the  aesthetic  experience. 
With  reference  to  the  former  we  ask  :  how  vividly  does 
the  work  of  art  force  us  to  see ;  how  completely  does  it 
make  us  enter  into  the  world  it  has  created;  and,  in 
doing  this,  how  poignantly  has  it  charmed  us,  how  close 
has  it  united  us  to  itself?  The  measure  of  this  is 
partly  subjective  and  irreducible  to  rules;  yet  ex- 
perience in  the  arts  establishes  a  norm  or  schema  of 
appreciation  through  the  process  of  comparison,  largely 
unconscious,  by  which  what  we  call  good  taste  is  ac- 
quired. There  are  certain  works  of  art  that  seem  to 
have  fulfilled  this  requirement  in  the  highest  possible 
degree,  thus  attaining  to  perfection  within  their  com- 
pass. Such,  for  example,  are  some  of  Sappho's  or 
Goethe's  lyrics,  or  the  Fifth  Canto  of  the  Inferno. 
Nothing  more  perfect,  more  beautiful  of  their  kind  can 


The  Standard  of  Taste  137 

be  conceived.  And  to  see  how  works  of  art  may  differ 
in  degree  of  perfection  of  sympathetic  vision,  one  has 
only  to  recall  lesser  works  expressing  the  same  themes. 
Yet  we  recognize  greater  works  even  than  those  cited 
-  works  in  which,  although  the  sympathetic  vision 
is  no  more  penetrating  and  compelling,  it  is  broader, 
more  inclusive.  Goethe's  Faust  is  greater  than  any 
one  of  his  lyrics  because  the  range  of  experience  which 
it  expresses  is  vaster.  A  Velasquez  is  greater  than  a 
Peter  De  Hooch  because,  in  addition  to  an  equal  beauty 
of  expression  through  color  and  line  and  composition, 
an  equal  dominion  over  light  and  space,  it  contains,  a 
marvelous  revelation  of  the  inner  life,  which  is  absent 
from  the  latter.  According  to  Berenson,  no  one  has 
yet  painted  the  perfect  landscape  because  thus  far  only 
a  certain  few  aspects  have  been  expressed,  but  not  all. 
There  are,  I  think,  certain  qualities  which  are  gen- 
erally recognized  as  necessary  to  the  perfect  fulfillment 
of  the  artistic  purpose  of  a  work ;  which  follow,  indeed, 
from  the  very  meaning  of  art.  Thus,  without  unique- 
ness and  freshness  there  can  be  no  perfection  in  artistic 
expression.  A  well-worn  or  even  an  identical  expres- 
sion may  have  value  in  the  solution  of  a  practical 
problem,  or  in  bringing  men  into  good-natured  rela- 
tionships with  one  another  in  social  life ;  as  when,  for 
example,  the  officer  cries  "Halt!"  repeatedly,  or  we 
say  "Good  morning"  at  breakfast;  because,  in  such 
cases,  the  expression  gets  its  significance  from  the  con- 
text in  which  it  belongs.  But  in  art,  where  expression 
is  freed  from  the  particular  setting  within  which  it 
arises,  thus  attaining  universality,  the  repetitious  and 
imitative,  having  no  environment  from  which  they  may 


138  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

derive  new  meaning,  are  purposeless.  They  are,  in- 
deed, worse  than  negligible,  because  having  grown  into 
the  habit  of  expecting  originality,  we  are  disappointed 
and  bored  when  we  fail  to  find  it.  Originality  is,  of 
course,  relative;  it  is  not  incompatible  with  the 
reminiscence  of  old  works  —  what  works  of  art  are  not 
reminiscent  ?  —  but  it  does  prohibit  saying  the  old 
things  over  again  in  the  same  medium ;  the  artist  must 
have  a  new  message  to  put  into  the  medium ;  or  else, 
if  the  old  themes  are  still  near  to  his  heart,  he  must 
invent  a  new  form  in  which  to  express  them,  from 
which  they  will  derive  a  new  music.  Closely  allied  to 
freshness  are  spontaneity  and  inner  necessity,  the  signs 
of  a  genuine,  as  opposed  to  a  factitious,  expression.  If 
we  get  the  impression  from  a  work  of  art  that  no  part 
could  be  otherwise  —  not  a  single  line  or  note  or 
stroke  of  the  brush  —  then  we  have  the  same  sort 
of  feeling  towards  it  that  we  have  towards  the  living 
thing  that  was  not  made  by  hands  capriciously,  but 
grew  in  its  inevitable  way  in  accordance  with  the  laws 
of  its  own  nature.  Of  course,  works  of  art  are  products 
of  thought,  of  plan,  and  conscious  purpose ;  they  are 
seldom  composed  all  at  one  flash,  but  grow  tentatively 
into  their  final  form;  nevertheless,  in  the  words  of 
Kant,  "A  work  of  art  must  look  like  nature,  albeit  we 
know  that  it  is  art."  Sense  charm  and  order  are  also 
necessary ;  for  they  are  the  conditions  of  a  perfect 
sympathy  and  vision.  We  are  indulgent  towards  the 
vigorous,  impatient  passion  that  bubbles  over  into 
rough  and  careless  music  or  poetry,  but  are  not  satisfied 
with  it.  For  art's  task  is  not  merely  to  express,  but 
to  dominate  through  expression,  to  create  out  of  ex- 


The  Standard  of  Taste  139 

pression,  beauty;  and  without  order  and  charm  of 
sense,  there  is  no  beauty.  Compose  your  passion,  we 
say  to  the  musician ;  pattern  it  forth,  we  say  to  the 
poet ;  it  will  not  lose  its  vigor ;  rather  it  will  acquire  a 
new  power ;  for  thus  it  will  achieve  restraint,  the  sign 
of  art's  dominion. 

The  recognition  of  the  principles  indicated  presup- 
poses, of  course,  that  art  really  has  a  purpose  with 
reference  to  which  it  can  be  judged  as  successful  or 
unsuccessful.  But  I  do  not  see  how  this  can  very  well 
be  denied.  Art  is  one  of  the  oldest  of  human  activities, 
one  might  almost  say  institutions,  and  it  is  inconceiv- 
able that  it  should  not  have  been  directed  by  some 
intention,  conscious  or  unconscious.  To  be  sure,  men 
have  expressed  this  intention  in  varying,  often  in 
inconsistent  ways,  but  the  same  is  true  of  all  other 
human  activities  and  institutions.  Few  would  deny, 
I  suppose,  that  science  and  the  state  have  purposes; 
yet  how  various  have  been  the  definitions  of  them. 
These  variations  have  corresponded,  without  doubt, 
to  adaptations  to  new  conditions,  yet  throughout  some 
unique  purpose  in  human  life  has  been  subserved.  So 
with  art.  Art  has  been  identified  now  with  one  interest 
and  now  with  another ;  what  people  want  of  art  differs 
from  one  age  to  another,  and  each  must  define  that 
for  itself ;  yet  throughout  there  has  been  a  core  of 
identity  in  the  purposes  it  has  served.  In  our  own 
age  we  witness  the  attempt  to  distinguish  the  purpose 
of  art  from  the  purposes  of  other  elements  of  civiliza- 
tion, with  which  it  has  often  been  fused  and  confused, 
—  science,  religion,  morality.  Correspondingly  we  wit- 
ness the  effort  to  limit  the  functions  of  political  con- 


140  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

trol;  to  take  from  its  jurisdiction  religion,  culture, 
love.  And  this  effort  is  for  the  sake  of  a  fuller  and 
freer  realization  of  values. 

Furthermore,  not  only  has  art  a  general  function, 
but  this  function  is  differentiated  among  the  different 
art  forms  and  genres.  No  work  of  art  can  be  judged 
without  reference  to  its  function.  Its  beauty  consists 
in  the  fulfillment  of  this  function.  Now  this  function 
is,  of  course,  largely  unique  for  each  art  form  and  for 
each  particular  work  of  art,  and  every  work  has  to  be 
judged  with  reference  to  its  individual  purpose,  yet  a 
knowledge  of  other  works  of  the  same  artist  and  the 
same  genre,  and  of  the  general  history  of  art,  helps 
to  divine  this  purpose  and  to  judge  of  its  relative  suc- 
cess. There  is  a  large  measure  of  continuity  in  the 
intentions  of  a  given  artist  and  school  of  art.  The 
development  of  painting  in  the  last  century  is  a  striking 
illustration  of  such  continuity.  The  painters  sought  to 
develop  a  definite  tradition,  thinking  of  themselves  as 
carrying  further  the  work  of  their  predecessors.  Of 
course  these  developments  were  largely  technical  in 
character,  but  beauty  itself  is  the  fruition  of  technique. 

The  people  who  base  a  skeptical  opinion  upon  the 
historical  changes  in  taste  forget  that  taste  is  neces- 
sarily a  growth;  that  it  is  developed  by  trial  and 
error,  through  and  despite  the  following  of  many  false 
paths.  Only  if  the  standard  were  something  delivered 
to  men  by  divine  revelation  —  as  indeed  the  old  dog- 
matists came  very  close  to  believing  —  would  it  be 
strange  and  inconsistent  for  changes  to  occur.  But  if, 
as  is  the  fact,  the  standard  is  experimental  and  repre- 
sentative of  actual  artistic  purposes,  then  change  is 


The  Standard  of  Taste  141 

normal.  Moreover,  the  standard  is  not  single  and 
absolute,  but  plural  and  relative.  Growth  in  taste 
means  not  only  development  along  a  given  line,  within 
a  given  form,  but  enlargement  through  the  origination 
of  new  forms  and  beauties.  It  is  not  like  the  straight 
line  growth  of  an  animal,  but  rather  radial,  like  the 
growth  of  a  plant,  sending  out  branches  in  every  direc- 
tion. An  art  may  attain  to  perfection  in  a  certain 
genre,  and  then  continue  only  through  the  creation  of 
new  types.  Thus  sculpture  and  architecture  reached 
a  kind  of  perfection  in  the  classic,  beyond  which  it  was 
impossible  to  go  —  the  only  possible  development  lay 
in  the  creation  of  new  types. 

If  it  is  true,  then,  that  the  existence  of  standards  has 
a  sound  basis  in  the  aesthetic  experience,  how  can  their 
apparent  failure  to  work  and  secure  unanimity  of 
judgment  be  explained  ?  How  account  for  the  actual 
chaos  of  judgment  ?  Partly,  at  least,  because  many 
judgments  passed  on  works  of  art  are  not  aesthetic 
judgments  at  all.  These  must  be  eliminated  if  any 
consensus  is  to  be  won.  We  may  call  these  judgments 
"pseudo-aesthetic"  judgments.  They  fall  naturally 
into  several  classes,  which  it  will  be  worth  while  to 
describe. 

First,  there  is  the  very  large  class  of  partisan  judg- 
ments —  judgments  based,  not  upon  a  free  apprecia- 
tion, but  upon  some  personal  predilection  or  transient 
appeal.  To  this  class  belong  the  special  preferences 
of  boyhood  and  youth  —  the  liking  for  Cooper  and  Jules 
Verne,  for  example  —  and  those  due  to  nationality,  like 
the  Englishman's  choice  of  Thackeray  and  the  French- 
man's of  Balzac,  or,  what  is  a  more  flagrant  case,  the 


142  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

long  resistance  of  the  French  public  to  the  beauty  of 
Wagner's  music.  The  former  type  of  judgment  is 
corrected  by  the  simple  process  of  maturing,  when  the 
beauties  appreciated  in  youth  are  not  lost,  but  only 
given  their  due  place  in  the  hierarchy  of  aesthetic 
values ;  the  latter  type,  on  the  other  hand,  being  more 
deeply  based,  is  more  difficult  to  remedy.  But  that 
even  this  prejudice  can  be  largely  overcome  is  shown  by 
the  example  of  critics  who,  through  prolonged  sympa- 
thetic study,  come  to  prefer  the  art  of  a  foreign  land. 
A  notable  example  of  this  is  Meier-Graeffe,  who  con- 
demns almost  all  of  modern  German  painting  and 
exalts  the  French.1  Patriotic  preferences  are  so  diffi- 
cult to  overcome  because  they  spring  from  limitations 
of  sympathy.  Sympathy  depends  upon  acquaintance, 
and  few  of  us  can  acquire  the  same  expertness  in  an 
alien  language  or  artistic  form  that  we  possess  in  our 
own.  Yet,  understanding  the  reason  for  these  de- 
ficiencies of  judgment,  we  can  go  to  work  to  im- 
prove them,  through  increasing  our  knowledge  of 
foreign  art. 

No  less  inevitable  psychologically  is  the  preference 
for  works  of  art  that  treat  of  the  problems  and  condi- 
tions of  contemporary  life.  Part  of  this,  to  be  sure,  is 
expressive  merely  of  some  transient  mood  of  the  popu- 
lar mind.  The  enthusiasm,  happily  passing,  for  the 
plays  of  Brieux  or  the  craze  for  Algerian  landscapes  in 
France  after  the  acquirement  of  the  colony,  are  ex- 
amples. Such  preferences,  being  superficially  moti- 
vated, correct  themselves  with  ease,  giving  way  to 
some  new  fashion  in  taste.  The  preference  for  works 

1  See  his  Modern  Art,  and  his  special  studies  of  Manet,  Renoir,  and  Degas. 


The  Standard  of  Taste  143 

of  art  that  reflect  the  more  serious  and  permanent 
problems  of  contemporary  society  is  more  firmly 
rooted.  Men  inevitably  seek  the  artistic  expression  of 
the  things  that  deeply  concern  them.  The  problems 
of  the  reconstruction  of  the  family,  of  the  working 
classes,  and  of  government  must  continue  to  inspire 
art  and  to  determine  our  interest  in  it,  until  new 
difficulties  occupy  our  minds.  The  mere  passage  of 
time,  however,  brings  a  remedy  for  critical  injustices 
flowing  from  this  source ;  for,  when  present  problems 
are  solved,  the  difference  between  living  art,  which 
expresses  them,  and  historical  art,  vanishes.  Then, 
only  those  works  which  reflect  the  eternal  enigmas 
have  any  advantage  over  the  others.  The  same  pro- 
cess tends  to  eliminate  the  prejudice,  rooted  in  tempera- 
ment, in  favor  of  the  old  and  familiar  in  art ;  or,  fol- 
lowing a  different  bent,  in  favor  of  the  new  and  start- 
ling. In  such  cases,  a  just  estimate  can  be  made  only 
when  the  new  becomes  the  old,  and  both  are  reduced 
to  a  common  level. 

Another  type  of  pseudo-aesthetic  judgment  is  the 
imitative.  By  this  I  mean  the  judgment  which  is 
made  because  somebody  else  has  made  it,  particularly 
somebody  in  authority.  The  imitative  judgment  is 
the  expression,  in  the  field  of  aesthetics,  of  what  Trotter 
has  called  "herd  instinct,"  1  the  tendency  on  the  part 
of  the  gregarious  animal  to  make  his  acts  and  habits 
conform  to  those  of  another  member  of  the  same 
group,  particularly  if  that  member  is  a  leader  or  repre- 
sents the  majority.  The  dislike  of  loneliness  and  the 
love  of  companionship  operate,  as  we  have  already  had 

.  l  See  his  The  Herd  Instinct  in  Peace  and  War,  first  part. 


144  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

occasion  to  notice,  even  in  the  sphere  of  the  spirit. 
Differences  here  separate  people  just  as  other  differ- 
ences do.  In  art,  herd  instinct  tends  to  make  the  judg- 
ment of  the  authoritative  or  fashionable  critic  take  the 
place  of  spontaneous  and  sincere  judgment.  I  do  not 
mean  that  such  judgments  are  usually  consciously 
insincere;  although  they  often  are  so,  since  men  seek 
to  ingratiate  themselves  by  flattering  even  the  aesthetic 
opinions  of  those  whose  love  or  protection  they  desire. 
I  do  mean,  however,  that  they  tend  to  suppress  opin- 
ions which  would  reflect  an  autonomous  appreciation. 
Moreover,  whatever  may  be  said  for  herd-instinct  in 
the  realm  of  politics  and  morals,  where  the  need  for 
common  action  makes  necessary  some  sort  of  consensus 
among  the  members  of  a  group,  very  little  can  be  said 
for  it  in  aesthetics,  where  no  practical  issues  are  directly 
involved.  There,  herd  instinct  simply  substitutes 
sham  appreciation  for  a  vital  and  healthy  reaction. 
Of  course,  imitative  judgments  must  be  distinguished 
from  those  that  agree  because  they  are  based  on  a 
genuine  contagion  or  community  of  feeling.  This 
distinction  may  be  a  difficult  one  for  the  outsider  to 
make;  but  is  not  so  for  the  individual  concerned.  I 
do  not  deny  the  value  of  authority  in  aesthetics ;  what 
I  am  inveighing  against  is  the  substitution  of  authority 
for  sincerity.  In  art,  the  suasion  of  the  norm  should 
be  absolutely  free,  with  no  penalty  except  isolation 
from  the  best.  The  only  value  of  authority  is  to 
counteract  laziness  and  superficiality  of  appreciation; 
to  stimulate  those  who  would  rest  content  with  first 
impressions  to  a  more  studious  and  attentive  examina- 
tion. Yet,  however  great  be  our  natural  desire  to 


The  Standard  of  Taste  145 

convince  others  of  beauty,  we  want  their  conviction  to 
be  as  sincere  as  our  own  :  we  do  not  want  it  to  be 
factitious,  —  suggested  or  dragooned.  It  is  often  too 
easy,  rather  than  too  hard,  to  win  agreement. 

The  question  of  the  place  of  authority  in  aesthetics 
is  raised  again  by  a  consideration  of  another  class  of 
pseudo-aesthetic  judgments,  which  I  shall  call  ignorant 
judgments.  These  judgments  are  perfectly  sincere, 
but  express  an  aesthetic  experience  that  is  imperfect, 
owing  to  defective  understanding  of  art.  So  many 
people  judge  works  of  art  as  if  they  could  assimilate 
them  immediately,  without  any  knowledge  of  their 
purpose  and  technique.  They  fail  to  recognize  that  a 
work  of  art  has  a  language,  with  a  vocabulary  and 
grammar,  which  has  to  be  mastered  through  study. 
A  work  of  art  is  a  possibility  of  a  certain  complex  of 
values,  not  a  given  actuality  that  can  be  grasped  by 
merely  stretching  out  the  hand.  Very  little  of  any 
work  of  art  is  given  —  just  a  few  sense  stimuli ;  the 
rest  is  an  emotional  and  meaningful  reaction,  which 
has  to  be  completed  in  a  determinate  fashion.  A  work 
of  art  is  a  question  to  which  the  right  answer  has  to 
be  found.  And  in  order  to  find  the  answer,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  know  both  what  to  look  for  and  what  not  to 
look  for.  For  example,  in  judging  Japanese  prints, 
one  must  realize,  from  the  limitation  of  the  medium, 
that  one  cannot  look  for  all  the  fullness  of  expression 
of  shadow  and  atmosphere  possible  in  an  oil  painting ; 
or  in  judging  decorative  or  post-impressionistic  paint- 
ing, one  must  realize  that  the  purpose  of  the  artist  is 
chiefly  to  obtain  musical  effects  from  color  and  line, 
not  to  represent  nature  realistically. 


146  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

Because  works  of  art  are  ideals,  possibilities  of  ex- 
perience, and  not  given  things  which  everybody  can 
appreciate  without  knowledge  and  effort,  I  am  skeptical 
of  all  results  obtained  in  laboratories  of  experimental 
aesthetics,  where  college  students  are  asked  to  judge 
works  of  painting,  music,  and  sculpture.  An  unin- 
structed  majority  vote  cannot  decide  any  question  in 
aesthetics.  Such  experiments,  with  the  exception  of 
those  that  concern  the  most  elementary  reactions,  yield 
interesting  statistical  results  about  the  groups  em- 
ployed as  subjects,  but  are  of  no  value  in  aesthetics. 
And  what  wonder  that  we  should  find  people  disagree- 
ing in  their  judgments  when,  because  of  ignorance,  they 
are  not  reporting  about  the  same  objects ! 

Finally,  an  aesthetic  consensus  is  possible  only  if 
non-aesthetic  standards  and  all  judgments  based  on 
false  conceptions  of  the  purpose  of  art  are  eliminated. 
Some  of  these  judgments  I  have  already  discussed  - 
the  scientific  and  the  moralistic.  The  purpose  of  art 
is  sympathetic  vision,  not  scientific  truth  or  edifica- 
tion. It  is  often  necessary,  in  order  to  win  a  vision  of 
actual  life,  for  the  artist  to  possess  scientific  knowledge ; 
but  only  as  a  means,  not  as  an  end.  And  again,  insight 
into  the  more  enduring  preferences  of  men  and  the 
conditions  of  their  happiness,  upon  which  rational 
moral  standards  are  founded,  is  indispensable  to  a 
complete  interpretation  of  life;  but  there  is  much 
of  life  that  can  be  envisaged  sympathetically,  that 
is,  artistically  and  beautifully,  with  small  hold  on 
ethical  wisdom.  No  one,  I  suppose,  would  regard 
de  Maupassant  as  a  wise  man  in  the  Greek  sense  of 
possessing  a  philosophical  grasp  of  the  norms  which 


The  Standard  of  Taste  147 

make  up  the  conscience  of  men,  yet  few  would  deny 
him  the  supreme  gift  of  delineating  the  pathos  and 
comedy  of  passion.  I  do  not  doubt  that  men  will 
always  judge  works  of  art  from  abstract  standpoints ; 
that  to-day  they  will  judge  them  from  the  points  of 
view  of  science  and  morals,  since  we  are  so  dominated 
by  their  sway ;  but  I  do  claim  that  these  standards  are 
not  aesthetic,  and  that  so  long  as  they  control  our 
estimates  of  art,  there  can  never  be  anything  except 
chaos  in  taste ;  for  they  will  always  come  into  conflict 
with  the  genuinely  aesthetic  point  of  view.  And,  I 
ask,  why  not  grant  to  art  its  autonomy  ?  If  art  has  a 
unique  purpose,  different  from  that  of  science  or  morals, 
why  should  we  not  judge  it  in  terms  of  that  purpose  ? 

Of  course,  since  man's  nature  is  one,  not  many,  it 
will  always  be  impossible  entirely  to  get  rid  of  the 
non-aesthetic  bases  of  judgment.  Personal  predilec- 
tion for  a  certain  kind  of  subject-matter,  patriotic 
preference  for  one's  own  language  and  style,  the  influ- 
ence of  authority  and  the  lure  of  the  crowd,  the  intru- 
sion of  the  moralistic  and  the  scientific  bias,  —  all 
these  must,  to  a  greater  or  less  degree,  divide  and 
dispute  the  hegemony  of  taste.  Nevertheless,  although 
it  is  impossible  to  reach  a  pure  aesthetic  judgment,  we 
ought  to  strive  to  approach  it,  and,  by  dint  of  training 
and  clear  thinking  about  art,  we  can  approach  it.  We 
ought  to  do  this,  not  because  of  any  formalism  or 
purism,  but  for  the  sake  of  preserving  the  unique  value 
of  art,  which  is  covered  up  or  destroyed  by  the  intru- 
sion of  non-aesthetic  standards  of  judgment.  For 
judgment  does  influence  feeling,  especially  such  a 
delicate  and  subtle  thing  as  aesthetic  feeling.  The 


148  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

patriotic  and  the  partisan  judgments  narrow  appre- 
ciation, the  imitative  substitute  a  judgment  for  a 
feeling,  the  moralistic  and  scientific  prejudices  often 
inhibit  the  possibility  of  the  aesthetic  reaction  at  the 
start,  or,  if  they  allow  it  to  begin,  prevent  the  full 
sympathy  and  abandon  which  are  required  for  its 
consummation.  We  can  get  scientific  truth  from 
science,  why  then  seek  it  in  art?  We  can  obtain 
moral  wisdom  from  the  philosopher  and  priest,  why 
require  it  of  the  artist  ?  Reformers  and  statesmen  will 
enlighten  us  concerning  reconstruction,  why  not  turn 
to  them  ?  I  do  not  mean,  of  course,  that  art  may  not 
express  the  mystery  and  the  wonder  of  science,  the 
voice  of  conscience,  the  cry  of  distress ;  but  even  this 
is  not  science,  or  sociology,  or  morals ;  and  art  must 
and  should  also  express  dark  passion,  hot  hate  or  love, 
and  joy  —  in  the  sea,  in  sunlight,  hi  the  shadow 
of  leaves  on  the  grass,  in  the  bodies  of  men  and 
women  —  and  the  other  myriad  forms  of  human  life 
and  nature  that  are  neither  right  nor  true,  but  simply 
are.  And  furthermore :  the  tyranny  of  the  scientific 
and  the  moral  is  the  death  of  art.  Art  can  live  only 
when  free.  So  long  as  men  are  subject  to  the  exclusive 
habit  of  condemning  and  praising  and  analyzing  and 
classifying,  they  are  incapable  of  a  free  envisagement 
and  expression.  Between  sociology  and  Puritanism, 
the  artistic  novel  and  the  drama  have  become  all  but 
impossible  in  this  country.  During  the  nineteenth 
century,  the  predilection,  among  the  Pre-Raphaelites, 
for  the  scientific  and  moral  nearly  killed  landscape 
painting  in  England,  its  birthplace.  And  only  in 
France,  where  alone  of  modern  nations  the  moral  and 


The  Standard  of  Taste  149 

hygienic  attitude  towards  the  human  body  has  not 
completely  driven  out  the  artistic,  has  there  been  a 
vital  and  enduring  sculpture. 

If  the  aesthetic  judgment  is  given  autonomy,  a  sure 
foundation  for  aesthetic  norms  can  be  established, 
because  then  art  will  be  judged  with  reference  to  a 
perfectly  definite  purpose.  Feeling  will  always  tell 
us  whether  a  thing  is  beautiful  or  not;  but  feeling 
itself  will  depend  upon  whether  the  implicit  purpose 
of  art  has  been  realized ;  and,  when  we  reflectively 
consider  a  work  in  relation  to  other  works,  we  shall 
have  a  solid  basis  for  comparison.  Judgment  will 
have  a  foundation  in  reason  as  well  as  in  feeling.  We 
shall  ask  of  the  artist,  not  whether  he  has  instructed 
us  or  edified  us,  but  solely  whether  he  has  given  us  a 
new  and  sympathetic  vision  of  some  part  of  our  ex- 
perience. The  kind  of  vision  that  he  gives  us  will 
depend,  of  course,  upon  the  materials  of  his  art  —  it 
will  be  one  thing  in  sound,  another  in  color  or  line  or 
patterned  words.  Even  as  we  demand  of  art  in  gen- 
eral a  unique  value,  as  fulfilling  a  unique  function,  so 
we  shall  demand  of  the  different  arts  that  each  pro- 
vide us  with  the  unique  beauty  which  its  materials 
can  create.  We  shall  therefore  commend  the  separa- 
tion of  the  arts  and  view  with  suspicion  any  attempt 
to  fuse  them.  Whatever  be  his  materials,  we  shall 
demand  of  the  artist  always  the  same  result :  that  he 
make  us  see,  and  command  our  sympathy  and  delight 
for  his  vision.  Any  judgment  that  we  make,  or  any 
standard  that  we  set  up,  must  proceed  upon  a  knowledge 
of  this  master  purpose  and  of  the  materials  and  tech- 
nique of  the  particular  art  through  which  it  is  to  be 


150  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

realized.  And  such  standards,  experimental  and  ten- 
tative, but  nevertheless  potent  and  directive,  are 
capable  of  discovery  and  formulation.  Some  of  the 
larger  and  more  important  of  these  we  shall  try  to  set 
forth  in  our  chapters  on  the  special  arts.  An  artist 
who  works  within  these  standards  is  sure  to  produce 
something  beautiful;  one  who  breaks  them  will  fail 
or,  rarely,  find  some  hitherto  undiscovered,  surprising 
beauty  in  the  medium. 

There  still  remains  for  consideration  the  fear  lest 
the  recognition  of  standards  may  discourage  new 
experiments  and  so  interfere  with  the  creative  impulse. 
It  is  true  that  tragedies  have  occurred  when  criticism 
has  been  unsympathetic  and  malicious  —  remember 
Keats  and  the  struggles  of  the  early  French  impres- 
sionistic painters  —  but  even  then  I  doubt  if  any  real 
harm  to  art  has  resulted.  For  the  situation  in  aesthetics 
differs  from  the  situation  in  ethics  and  politics  where  the 
retarding  effect  of  convention  is  undeniable.  In  art 
there  can  never  be  the  same  closeness  of  alliance 
between  convention  and  vested  interests  that  is  so 
repressive  a  force  in  the  "world."  It  is  probably 
true  indeed  that,  as  Plato  said,  "when  the  modes 
of  music  change,  so  do  constitutions  change " ;  for 
example,  there  is  doubtless  to-day  some  connec- 
tion between  imagist  poetry,  post-impressionistic 
painting,  Russian  music,  and  revolutionary  senti- 
ment —  witness,  in  our  own  country,  The  Masses  and 
The  Seven  Arts  —  but  the  link  is  too  delicate  to  alarm 
the  powers  that  be.  The  upholding  of  a  standard 
must  be  allied  with  material  interests  if  it  is  to  be 
repressive  of  creation  and  novelty.  But,  as  a  free 


The  Standard  of  Taste  151 

force,  operating  solely  by  influence,  the  standard  has 
the  effect  only  of  keeping  alive  the  love  of  excellence, 
and,  by  providing  some  stability  in  the  old,  creating 
that  contrast  between  the  new  and  the  old,  so  stimulat- 
ing to  the  new  itself.  For  the  impulse  to  originate 
operates  best  alongside  of  and  in  opposition  to  the 
desire  to  conserve.  France  has  been  the  great  origin- 
ator in  the  plastic  arts  during  recent  times;  but  it 
has  also  been  the  only  country  where  a  genuine  tra- 
ditional standard  has  existed.  When  tradition  is  based 
on  experiments,  as  in  art,  it  cannot  be  in  essence  hostile 
to  them.  And  all  valid  aesthetic  principles  are  suf- 
ficiently broad  and  abstract  not  to  interfere  with 
novelty  and  creation. 

When  such  principles  as  we  have  tried  to  formulate 
are  admitted,  the  world  of  aesthetic  judgments  can  be 
organized  and  some  consensus  about  the  beautiful 
achieved.  Without  an  approach  to  a  consensus,  the 
aesthetic  impulse  can  never  be  content ;  for  it  is  inde- 
feasibly  sociable.  Agreement  in  judgments  depends 
upon  a  common  experience,  and  this  also  art  can  pro- 
vide. For  beauty  is  constituted  of  elementary  reac- 
tions to  sense  stimuli  which  are  well-nigh  universal 
among  men,  and  of  symbols  and  meanings  which  can 
be  learned  like  any  language.  The  delight  in  harmony 
and  balance,  order  and  symmetry  and  rhythm,  and 
again,  the  pleasure  in  the  unique  and  well  finished, 
are  felt  by  every  one.  The  entire  form  side  of  art,  its 
structure  or  design,  is  based  on  fundamental  and 
enduring  elements  of  human  nature.  The  symbolism 
of  sensation,  its  musical  expressiveness,  as  we  have 
called  it,  is  rooted  likewise  in  reactions  and  interpre- 


152  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

tations  that  either  are,  or  may  become,  through  sug- 
gestion and  training,  common  property.  There  are, 
of  course,  the  people  who  have  no  feeling  for  tones, 
and  through  defective  memory  for  tones,  no  apprecia- 
tion of  musical  design ;  there  are  also  those  who  are 
insensitive  to  color  and  line.  In  many  cases,  through 
the  training  of  the  attention,  these  defects  can  be 
overcome ;  yet,  in  others,  they  are  permanent  and 
incurable.  This  fact  limits  the  universality  of  art; 
oftentimes,  when  two  people  are  discussing  a  work, 
they  are  not  talking  about  the  same  object;  for  a 
large  part  of  its  potentialities  are  lost  to  one  of  them. 
Nevertheless,  the  validity  of  empirical  standards 
among  those  who  are  capable  of  appreciating  the  whole 
of  a  work  of  art  is  not  touched  by  this  fact.  Those 
who  can  agree,  ultimately  will  agree.  As  for  art 
as  representation,  that  is  a  language  readily  acquired. 
It  is  an  easier  and  more  natural  language  than  or- 
dinary speech.  What  is  meant  by  the  colors  and 
lines  of  a  painting  or  statue,  or  by  the  mimic  of 
the  drama,  is  immediately  grasped  by  any  intelligent 
person ;  for  to  make  use  of  images  of  things  in  order  to 
represent  them  is  a  universal  habit  among  men.  The 
painting  and  sculpture  of  the  Chinese  are  intelligible 
to  us ;  not  so  their  speech.  Of  course,  to  some  extent, 
the  language  of  painting  and  sculpture  is  conventional ; 
the  limits  of  accuracy  of  imitation  are  not  set  by 
nature,  except  at  the  extremes,  but  by  the  tradition 
or  practice  of  painters.  Yet  the  convention  is  a 
simple  one,  easily  understood  and  accepted. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  ESTHETICS   OF  MUSIC 

IN  this  and  the  following  chapters  which  treat  of 
the  arts,  I  plan  to  make  a  concrete  application  of  the 
aesthetic  theory  thus  far  developed.  I  want  to  show 
how  the  general  principles  which  we  have  tried  to  es- 
tablish can  be  used  to  explain  the  facts  of  our  artistic 
experience.  In  doing  this  I  shall  hope  to  achieve 
a  double  purpose :  first,  to  verify  anew  our  theory  of 
art,  and  second,  to  deepen  and  enlighten  appreciation. 

I  begin  with  music  because,  as  we  shall  see,  there  is 
a  musical  factor  in  all  the  arts,  an  understanding  of 
which  at  the  beginning  will  enable  us  to  proceed  much 
more  easily  in  our  survey  of  them.  I  shall  confine 
myself  to  an  elementary  analysis ;  for  a  more  detailed 
study  would  take  us  beyond  the  bounds  of  general 
aesthetics  and  would  require  a  knowledge  of  the  special 
technique  of  the  arts  which  we  cannot  presuppose. 
Moreover,  we  shall  not  concern  ourselves  with  the 
origin  or  history  of  the  arts  further  than  is  needful  for 
an  understanding  of  their  general  character.  We  are 
investigating  the  theory,  not  the  history,  of  taste,  and 
are  more  interested  in  the  present  developed  aesthetic 
consciousness  than  in  its  rudimentary  forms. 

As  we  appreciate  it  to-day,  music  lends  itself  readily 
to  our  definition  of  art.  It  is  a  personal  expression 
—  who,  when  listening  to  music  which  he  enjoys,  does 

153 


154  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

not  feel  himself  poured  forth  in  the  tones?  It  is 
social  and  public  —  what  brings  us  together  under  the 
sway  of  a  common  emotion  more  effectively  than 
concert  or  opera  ?  It  is  a  fixed  and  permanent  expres- 
sion, for  we  can  renew  it  so  long  as  men  preserve  the 
score  where  it  is  written ;  and,  finally,  it  is  free  —  who 
can  find  any  practical  or  moral  or  scientific  purpose 
in  an  etude  of  Chopin  or  a  symphony  of  Mozart? 
Music  is  the  most  signal  example  of  a  mode  of  expres- 
sion that  has  attained  to  a  complete  and  pure  aesthetic 
character,  an  unmixed  beauty.  Yet  this  was  not 
true  of  music  in  its  earlier  forms,  and  a  long  process 
of  development  was  necessary  before  freedom  was 
realized.  For  we  must  look  for  the  beginning  of  music 
in  any  and  all  sounds  through  which  primitive  men 
sought  to  express  and  communicate  themselves.  These 
were,  first  of  all,  the  cries  of  the  human  voice,  expressive 
of  fear  and  need  and  joy  —  at  once  direct  outpourings 
of  basic  emotions  and  signals  to  one's  fellows,  to  help, 
to  satisfy,  and  to  sympathize.  In  the  voice  nature 
provided  man  with  a  direct  and  immediate  instrument 
for  the  expression  and  communication  of  himself  through 
sound.  Then,  perhaps  by  accident,  man  discovered 
that  he  could  make  sounds  in  other  ways,  through 
materials  separate  from  his  body,  and  so  he  constructed 
drums  and  cymbals  and  gongs ;  and  by  means  of  these, 
too,  he  communicated  his  needs  and  stimulated  him- 
self to  rage  and  excitement  —  and  his  enemy  to  fear  — 
in  war  dance  and  battle  rush.  And  in  doing  this  he 
was  imitating  nature,  whose  noises,  exciting  and  terrify- 
ing, he  had  long  known :  the  clap  of  thunder,  the 
whistle  of  the  wind,  the  roar  of  the  waves,  the  crackling 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Music  155 

of  burning  wood,  the  crash  of  fallen  and  breaking 
things. 

Out  of  unbeautiful  noise  sprang  beautiful  music. 
Men  discovered  that  through  the  voice  they  could 
make  not  only  expressive  noises,  but  also  pleasant 
tones ;  they  found,  perhaps  by  accident,  that  they 
could  do  much  the  same  thing  with  reeds  and  strings; 
they  observed  that  when  they  beat  their  drums  at 
regular  intervals  to  mark  the  motion  of  the  dance, 
they  not  only  danced  together  more  easily,  but  also 
experienced  joy  in  the  very  sounds  they  made;  or 
that  when  they  threshed  the  corn  with  rhythmic  strokes 
or  rowed  a  boat  in  rhythmic  unison,  their  task  was 
lightened  and  their  wearied  attention  distracted  to 
the  pleasure  of  their  noise.  Hence  at  their  dances  of 
love  or  war  or  religion,  they  sang  instead  of  shouted ; 
and  their  instruments  of  irregular  and  expressive 
noise  became  instruments  of  rhythmical  and  melodious 
tones.  Eventually,  having  experienced  the  pleasure 
there  is  in  tones  and  rhythmical  sounds,  they  made 
them  for  their  own  sake,  apart  from  any  connection 
with  tribal  festivals,  and  the  free  art  of  music  was  born. 
And  yet,  as  we  shall  see,  the  significance  of  music 
depends  largely  upon  the  fact  that  tones  are  akin  to 
noises ;  music  could  not  take  such  a  hold  of  the  emo- 
tions of  men  did  they  not  overhear  in  the  tones  the 
meaningful  and  poignant  noises  of  voice  and  nature ; 
to  understand  music,  we  must  think  of  it  against  its 
background  of  expressive  noise.  In  music  we  still 
seem  to  hear  a  voice  that  breaks  the  silence  and  speaks, 
the  thunder  that  terrifies. 

The  material  of  music  consists  of  tones,  the  conscious 


156  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

counterparts  of  periodic,  longitudinal  vibrations  of 
the  air.  Tones  differ  among  themselves  in  many 
attributes,  of  which  the  following  are  of  chief  impor- 
tance for  music  :  pitch,  determined  by  rate  of  vibration, 
through  which  tones  differ  as  higher  and  lower ;  color, 
determined  by  the  complexity  of  the  vibration  wave, 
the  presence  of  overtones  of  different  pitch  along  with 
the  fundamental  tone  in  the  total  sound ;  intensity, 
dependent  upon  the  amplitude  of  the  vibration,  through 
which  tones  of  the  same  pitch  differ  as  soft  or  loud; 
and  finally,  quality,  that  specific  character  of  a  tone, 
by  reason  of  which  middle  C,  for  example,  is  more 
like  the  C  of  the  octave  below  or  above  than  like  its 
nearer  neighbors,  B  or  D,  whence  the  series  of  tones, 
although  in  pitch  linear  and  one-dimensional,  is  in 
quality  periodic,  returning  again  and  again  upon  itself, 
as  we  go  up  or  down  the  scale.1 

The  number  of  qualities  in  use  in  music  —  twelve 
in  our  scale  of  equal  temperament  —  is,  of  course, 
not  all  there  are  in  the  world  of  tones;  they  are  a 
human  and  arbitrary  selection,  governed  by  technical 
and  historical  motives,  into  which  we  shall  not  enter. 
Peoples  with  a  different  culture  have  made  a  different 
selection.  But  we  are  not  concerned  with  the  music  of 
angels  or  of  orientals,  but  with  our  own.  With  these 
twelve,  with  their  possible  variations  in  pitch,  loudness, 
and  tone-color,  the  musician  has  a  rich  and  adequate 
material. 

All  the  elements  of  an  aesthetic  experience  are  present 
in  striking  simplicity  even  in  the  single  musical  tone. 
There  is  the  sensuous  medium,  the  sound;  there  is 

1  See  Geza  Revesz :   Tonpsychologie. 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Music  157 

a  life  expressed,  a  feeling  aroused  in  us,  yet  so  com- 
pletely objectified  in  the  sound  that  it  seems  to  belong 
to  the  latter  on  equal  terms  with  color  or  quality  or 
loudness ;  there  is  a  unity  and  variety  and  orderly 
structure  in  the  dominance  of  the  fundamental  among 
the  overtones  and  the  fusion  of  all  in  the  total  clang. 
Thus  every  note  is  a  complete  little  aesthetic  organism. 
Yet  the  beauty  of  single  tones  is  very  slight,  —  less, 
I  think,  than  that  of  single  colors ;  they  need  the 
contrast  or  the  agreement  in  consonance  with  other 
tones  in  order  to  awaken  much  feeling ;  they  must  be 
members  of  a  wider  whole ;  observe  how,  when  sounded 
after  other  tones,  they  become  enriched  through  the 
contrasting  or  consonant  memory  of  those  tones. 
Nevertheless,  the  single  tone  has  its  feeling,  however 
slight,  and  to  understand  this  is  to  go  a  long  way  toward 
understanding  the  more  complex  structures  of  music. 
In  the  first  place,  tones,  unlike  noises,  are  all  pleasant. 
Although  we  cannot  be  sure  why  this  is  true,  there 
can  be  little  doubt,  I  think,  that  the  regularity  of  the 
vibrations  of  the  former,  in  contrast  with  the  irregu- 
larity of  the  latter,  is  largely  responsible.  The  clang, 
with  its  ordered  complexity,  is  a  stimulus  that  incites 
the  sense  organ  and  connected  motor  tracts  to  a  unified 
and  definite  response,  unlike  noise,  which  creates 
confusion.  The  pleasure  in  the  single  tone  is  similar, 
in  its  causes,  to  the  pleasure  in  the  consonance  of 
two  tones.  As  we  should  expect  from  this  analogy, 
the  pleasure  is  greater  in  rich  tones,  which  contain 
many  partials,  than  in  thin  tones,  which  are  relatively 
uninteresting.  But  the  feeling  of  tones  is  something 
more  than  mere  pleasantness;  it  is  also  a  mood. 


158  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

Now  this  mood  of  tones  is  partly  due  to  associations, 
—  some  superficial  in  character,  like  the  pastoral 
quality  of  flute  tones  or  the  martial  character  of  bugle 
tones,  others  more  fundamental;  but  it  has  also  a 
still  deeper-lying  root.  For  a  sound  stimulus  awakens 
not  only  a  sensory  process  in  the  ear,  the  correlative 
of  which  is  a  sensation,  but  also  incipient  motor  reac- 
tions, which,  if  carried  out,  would  be  an  emotion,  but 
which,  being  too  slight  and  diffuse,  produce  only  what 
we  call  a  mood.  Every  sensation  has  a  meaning  for 
the  organism  in  an  environment  where  it  has  constantly 
to  be  on  its  guard  for  danger  or  assistance;  every 
sensation  is  therefore  connected  with  the  mechanism 
of  reaction,  with  its  attendant  emotions.  In  ordinary 
experience,  there  are  objects  present  to  which  the 
organism  may  actually  respond,  but  in  the  aesthetic 
experience  there  are  no  real  objects  towards  which  a 
significant  reaction  can  take  place;  in  music,  the 
source  of  the  sound  is  obviously  of  no  practical  impor- 
tance, while  in  such  arts  as  painting  and  sculpture 
where  interesting  objects  are  represented,  the  objects 
themselves  are  absent;  hence  the  reaction  is  never 
carried  out,  but  remains  incipient,  a  vague  feeling  which, 
finding  no  object  upon  which  it  may  work  itself  off, 
is  suffused  upon  the  sensation.  These  sense  feelings 
are  the  subtle,  but  basal,  material  of  all  beauty. 

The  variety  of  moods  expressed  in  tones  is  almost 
endless.  When  we  experience  them,  they  come  to 
us  as  the  inner  life  of  the  total  concrete  tones,  but  they 
depend  actually  upon  the  working  together  of  all  the 
tonal  attributes,  —  color,  quality,  pitch,  and  loudness. 
There  is  the  subtle  intimacy  of  violin  tones  compared 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Music  159 

with  the  clear  arresting  ring  of  the  trumpet;  the 
emotional  differences  between  qualities  like  C  and 
G,  too  delicate  for  expression  in  words ;  the  piercing 
excitement  of  the  high,  bright  tones,  compared  with 
the  earnest  depth  of  the  low,  dull  tones ;  the  almost 
terrifying  effect  of  loud  tones  compared  with  the  sooth- 
ing influence  of  soft  tones. 

The  precise  psychophysical  mechanism  through 
which  the  different  moods  are  aroused  is  for  the  most 
part  hidden  from  us ;  yet  in  certain  particulars  we 
can  form  some'  idea  of  it.  For  example,  the  richness 
of  feeling  in  the  tones  of  certain  instruments  as  com- 
pared with  others  is  doubtless  due  to  the  fact  that 
through  the  presence  of  more  overtones  and  the  ad- 
mixture of  noise,  the  reaction  is  more  complex;  the 
tense  excitement  of  high  and  loud  tones,  as  compared 
with  the  soft  and  low,  is  probably  connected  with  the 
fact  that  their  higher  vibration  rate  and  greater  ampli- 
tude of  vibration  produce  a  more  marked  effect,  a 
more  pervasive  disturbance,  —  the  organism  does 
not  right  itself  and  recover  so  rapidly  and  easily. 
These  direct  and  native  elements  of  feeling  are  then 
broadened  out  and  intensified  through  other  elements 
that  come  in  by  way  of  association.  For  example, 
in  order  to  sing  high  tones,  a  greater  tension  and  exer- 
tion of  the  vocal  chords  is  needed  than  for  low  tones ; 
loud  tones  suggest  loud  noises,  which,  as  in  breaking 
and  crashing  and  thundering,  are  inevitably  associated 
with  fear;  the  loud  is  also  the  near  and  present  and 
threatening,  the  low  is  distant  and  safe.  Although 
each  tone,  as  separate  and  individual,  possesses  its 
own  feeling  in  its  own  right,  the  tonal  effects  are  im- 


160  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

mensely  accentuated  by  contrast  with  one  another, 
-  the  high  against  the  low,  the  poor  against  the  rich, 
the  loud  against  the  soft  —  and  through  the  summation, 
by  means  of  repetition,  of  the  influences  of  many  tones 
of  like  character;  the  full  meaning  of  music  depends 
upon  the  relations  of  tones,  especially  the  temporal 
relations. 

This  fact  was  fully  recognized  by  Aristotle,  who 
raised  the  question  why  tones  are  so  much  more  expres- 
sive than  colors.  Music  is  almost  the  sole  important 
art  that  relies  on  the  expressiveness  of  the  sense  ma- 
terial alone,  independent  of  any  element  of  meaning. 
To  be  sure,  the  beauty  of  oriental  rugs  depends  entirely 
on  their  color  and  line  harmonies;  for  the  meanings 
which  the  patterns  have  for  their  oriental  makers  is 
generally  unknown  to  us  of  the  western  world;  yet 
what  we  feel  when  we  contemplate  them  cannot  com- 
pare in  volume  and  intensity  with  what  we  experience 
when  we  listen  to  music.  And  Aristotle  correctly 
assigned  one  of  the  chief  reasons  for  the  superior 
significance  of  music  —  its  temporal  character.  A 
color  or  line  scheme  may  express  a  momentary  mood, 
with  perhaps  just  the  most  rudimentary  movement 
as  we  go  from  the  dark  to  the  bright  colors,  or  as  we 
follow  the  motion  of  the  lines  as  they  curve  or  con- 
verge ;  yet  it  cannot  express  an  action  or  process  that 
begins,  proceeds,  continues,  ends.  When  we  look 
at  the  colors  or  lines  of  a  painting  or  rug,  we  feel  in- 
tensely, but  there  is  no  development  or  process  of 
feeling;  if  the  mind  moves,  it  moves  inevitably  not 
with,  but  away  from,  what  it  sees.  But  tones  are  given 
to  us  in  succession ;  we  are  forced  to  move  with  them ; 


The  .Esthetics  of  Music  161 

hence  they  come  to  express  for  us,  in  ways  which  we 
shall  try  to  analyze,  the  changing  and  developing  pro- 
cess of  the  inner  life. 

In  its  temporal  aspect,  music  has  two  chief  char- 
acteristics, rhythm  and  melody.  In  our  music  these 
are  inseparable;  yet  they  can  be  separated  for  the 
purposes  of  analysis;  and  a  rhythmical  roll  of  drum- 
beats or  a  careless  succession  of  tones  harmonically 
related  proves  that  each  may  produce  an  aesthetic 
effect  without  the  other.  We  shall  consider  melody 
first. 

A  mere  succession  of  tones,  however  pleasing  sepa- 
rately, does  not  make  a  melody;  for  melody  depends 
on  a  definite  scale  and  on  certain  relations  between 
the  tones  of  the  scale.  These  relations  illustrate 
the  three  modes  of  aesthetic  unity.  First,  there  is 
harmony.  Tones  are  harmonically  related  when  they 
belong  to  the  leading  chords  of  the  key.  The  tones 
of  such  chords,  when  sounded  together,  are  consonant. 
Now  harmony,  which  is  an  aesthetic  feeling,  although 
not  identical  with  consonance,  which  is  a  purely 
sensory  relation  between  tones,  depends  nevertheless 
upon  consonance.  In  order  to  understand  harmony, 
we  must  therefore  first  understand  consonance,  and, 
in  order  to  do  this,  we  must  begin  by  describing  the 
experience  and  then  look  for  its  possible  causes.1  As 
for  the  first,  consonant  tones,  when  sounded  together, 
seem  to  fit  one  another,  almost  to  fuse,  despite  the 
fact  that  the  different  tones  are  distinguishable  in 
the  whole.  This  fitting  together,  in  turn,  seems  to 

1  Consult  the  discussions  in  Karl  Stumpf ,  Tonpsychologie ;  Carl  Emil 
Seashore,  The  Psychology  of  Musical  Talent,  chap.  VII. 


162  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

depend  on  a  resemblance  or  partial  identity  between 
them.  For  example,  the  most  consonant  tones  are  a 
note  and  its  octave,  which  are,  perhaps,  actually  identi- 
cal in  quality;  but  lesser  intervals  are  also  alike,  as 
for  example  a  note  and  its  fifth,  which  are  more  readily 
mistaken  for  one  another  than  two  dissonant  tones, 
say  a  note  and  its  seventh.  As  for  the  explanation 
of  consonance,  we  know  that  consonant  tones  have 
identical  partial  tones  and  are  caused  by  vibration 
rates  that  stand  to  one  another  in  simple  ratios.  Thus 
in  a  clang  composed  of  a  tone  and  its  fifth,  the  first 
partial  of  the  fifth  is  the  second  partial  of  the  prime, 
and  the  vibration  ratios  are  as  two  to  three.  The 
bearing  of  this  second  fact  on  the  question  of  partial 
identity  will  become  clear  if  we  consider  the  concrete 
case  of  a  tone  produced  by  24  vibrations  per  second, 
whose  fifth  would  then  be  produced  by  36  vibrations 
per  second,  and  then  consider  the  same  tone  and  its 
dissonant  second,  the  ratio  of  whose  vibrations  is  24 
to  27 ;  in  the  former  case,  there  is  a  common  part  of 
6  vibrations,  a  fourth  of  the  total  number  of  the  first 
tone;  in  the  latter,  only  3,  an  eighth.  That  identity 
of  partial  tones  is  not  a  sufficient  explanation  of  con- 
sonance —  as  Helmholtz  thought  it  to  be  —  is  proved 
by  the  fact  that  simple  tones,  which  have  no  partials, 
may  still  be  consonant.  Nevertheless,  an  identity  of 
partials  does  undoubtedly  contribute  to  the  conso- 
nance of  the  complex  tones  used  in  our  music ;  ulti- 
mately, however,  the  final  reason  for  consonance  must 
be  sought  in  some  underlying  identity  within  the  tones 
themselves,  an  identity  that  seems  to  be  given  psycho- 
logically in  their  resemblance,  and  with  which  physi- 


The  .Esthetics  of  Music  163 

cally  the  simplicity  of  their  vibration  ratios  probably 
has  something  to  do.  And  that  in  music  the  feeling 
of  harmony  should  depend  upon  partial  identity  is 
what  we  should  expect  from  our  previous  study  of 
harmony  in  general.1 

The  second  of  the  tonal  relations  upon  which  melody 
depends  is  contrast.  First,  there  is  the  contrast 
between  the  high  and  the  low;  even  when  notes  are 
harmonically  related,  as  a  note  and  its  fifth,  they  are 
in  contrast,  in  so  far  as  the  one  is  measurably  higher 
and  more  distant  than  the  other.  Of  equal  importance 
is  the  rivalry  between  the  fundamental  tones  in  the 
leading  harmonic  chords;  for  example,  the  rivalry 
between  the  tonic  and  the  dominant.  For  each  of 
these  claims  to  be  the  center  of  the  melodic  progression, 
and  draws  to  itself  all  the  tones  which  belong  to  its 
chord.  Dissonance  is  a  cause  of  rivalry;  for  a  dis- 
sonant tone  is  one  that  will  not  fit  into  a  given  harmony ; 
yet  since  it  is  still  a  part  of  the  melody,  must  have 
its  home  somewhere,  and  belongs  therefore  in  another 
harmony,  which,  through  this  tone,  is  set  up  in  rivalry 
with  the  prevailing  one.  A  tone  that  did  not  belong 
to  any  harmony  would  not  be  a  dissonance,  but  a  dis- 
cord, —  a  tone  without  meaning  musically.  Dis- 
sonances, like  other  contrasts,  enrich  the  melody  by 
establishing  rival  harmonies  ;  discords  destroy  melodies. 
Just  as  the  drama  has  little  significance  without  con- 
flict, so  melodies  are  uninteresting  without  dissonances. 

Were  it  not  for  the  third  of  the  tonal  relations,  melo- 
dies would  lack  unity  and  system  and  go  to  pieces 
under  the  stress  of  rival  forces.  This  third  relation 

1  See  page  87, 


164  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

may  be  call  finality ; 1  it  belongs  among  relations  we 
have  called  evolutionary.  By  it  is  meant  the  fact 
that  certain  tones  demand  and  naturally  lead  into 
other  tones,  in  which  they  seem  to  find  their  completion 
or  fulfillment.  For  example,  the  tones  of  a  chord 
demand  the  fundamental  tone  of  the  chord  ;  dissonances 
must  be  "resolved,"-— must  be  followed  by  other  tones 
of  their  own  harmony;  the  diatonic  tones  over  and 
above  the  tonic — the  "upleader"  and  "downleader" 
-  naturally  lead  into  the  tonic ;  and  all  the  tones 
demand,  either  immediately  or  through  the  mediation 
of  other  tones,  the  tonic  of  the  scale  to  which  they  be- 
long. This  principle  of  finality,  which,  in  the  classic 
music,  is  the  basis  of  what  is  called  "  tonality,"  by 
establishing  the  tonic  as  the  center  of  reference  and 
point  of  completion  of  all  tones,  gives  to  melody  its 
dramatic  unity.  Through  it,  by  creating  the  tonic 
chord  as  fundamental,  the  rivalry  between  the  tonic, 
dominant,  and  subdominant  is  overcome,  and  all  dis- 
sonances finally  resolved  into  unity.  Definite  scales 
and  tonal  laws  and  schemes  of  composition  are  of  the 
utmost  importance  for  musical  composition;  there 
are,  of  course,  many  of  these  besides  the  classical, 
and  they  are  all  partly  conventional;  but  that  does 
not  matter  so  long  as,  by  being  well  known,  they  enable 
the  melody  to  move  along  definite  lines,  arousing  and 
fulfilling  definite  expectations.  Those  forms  of  mod- 
ernist music  that  dispense  with  scales  altogether,  in 
which  therefore  there  are  no  fixed  points  de  repere  like 
the  tonic  or  dominant  of  the  older  music,  can  express 

1  The  explanation  of  this  is  obscure ;   there  is  no  unanimity  among  the 
specialists  in  musical  theory. 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Music  165 

chance  momentary  moods  by  means  of  rich  and  strange 
colors,  but  not  an  orderly  and  purposeful  experience. 

Of  course,  in  our  modern  harmonic  music  the  melodic 
movement  proceeds  by  means,  not  of  single  tones,  but 
of  chords.  Yet  no  new  principle  is  introduced  by  this 
fact.  For  the  chords  have  in  part  merely  the  signif- 
icance of  highly  enriched  tones,  the  harmonized  tones 
of  the  chords  taking  the  place  of  the  partials  of  the 
single  notes  and  imparting  a  more  voluminous  color, 
which  may  have  its  own  beauty  as  such;  and,  in 
addition,  they  simply  confer  upon  the  melody  another 
dimension,  as  it  were,  the  tonal  relations  of  harmony 
and  contrast  operating  between  the  tones  of  the  chords 
simultaneously,  as  well  as  temporally  between  the 
successive  elements  of  the  melody. 

The  orderly  beauty  which  the  tonal  relations  confer 
upon  music  is  further  enriched  and  complicated  by 
rhythm.  Rhythm  in  music  is  of  two  sorts  :  a  rhythm 
of  time  and  a  rhythm  of  accent,  or  increased  loudness. 
Through  the  one,  the  duration  of  a  musical  composi- 
tion is  divided  up  into  approximately  equal  parts 
filled  by  notes  and  rests  of  definite  length,  and  through 
the  other,  the  light  notes  are  subordinated  to  the 
heavy  notes.  The  two,  however,  are  interrelated; 
for  the  bars  are  divided  from  each  other  by  the 
accents,  and  the  accents  recur  at  approximately  equal 
intervals. 

The  pleasure  in  rhythmical  arrangement  is  derived 
from  two  sources :  first,  from  the  need  for  perspicuity 
which  is  fulfilled  through  the  regular  grouping  of  the 
tonal  elements  in  the  bars,  —  their  length  being  ad- 
justed to  the  average  length  of  an  attention  wave,  and 


166  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

the  number  of  tones  that  fill  them  to  the  number  of 
items  which  can  be  taken  in  at  one  act  of  attention,  - 
and  through  the  subordination  of  the  light  to  the 
heavy  within  the  bars,  the  bars  to  the  measures,  and 
the  measures  to  the  periods.  The  second  source  of 
satisfaction  in  rhythm  is  the  combination  of  feelings  of 
balance  and  harmony  aroused  —  a  rhythm  is  not  only 
a  pleasing  perspicuous  order,  but  an  emotion.1  For  every 
recurring  accent  and  interval  competes  with  its  predeces- 
sor for  the  mind's  attention,  yet  is  in  agreement  with  it 
since  it,  too,  fulfills  the  law  that  pervades  them  all. 

The  full  significance  of  both  melody  and  rhythm 
depends,  however,  upon  their  interrelation,  the  con- 
crete musical  structure,  the  motive  or  melody  in  the 
complete  sense,  being  an  indissoluble  unity  of  both. 
Now  if  we  take  the  term  will  with  a  broad  meaning, 
Schopenhauer's  characterization  of  melody  as  an 
image  of  the  will  still  remains  the  truest  aesthetic 
interpretation  of  it.  For,  when  we  hear  it,  we  not 
only  hear,  but  attend  to  what  we  hear;  we  hear  each 
tone  in  its  relations  of  harmony  or  contrast  or  fulfill- 
ment to  other  tones,  freighted  with  memories  of  its 
predecessors  and  carrying  with  it  expectations,  which 
the  following  tones  fulfill  or  deny.  The  melody  begins, 
let  us  suppose,  with  the  tonic  note.  This  note  then 
becomes  for  us  a  plan  or  purpose;  for  as  it  goes,  it 
leaves  in  the  mind  a  memory  of  itself,  no  mere  pale 
sensation  —  no  image  ever  is  —  but  a  motor  set,  an 
expectation  and  desire  to  hear  the  note  again.  If  the 
next  note  is  harmonically  related,  this  purpose  is 
partially  fulfilled  and  we  get  the  satisfaction  of  a  par- 
See  chap.  V,  p.  90. 


The  Esthetics  of  Music  167 

tial  success.  If,  however,  the  tone  does  not  belong  to 
the  tonic  chord,  but,  let  us  suppose,  to  the  subdominant, 
it  comes  as  a  hindrance,  an  obstacle,  or  perhaps  as  a 
new  and  rival  purpose  springing  up  in  the  course  of  the 
fulfillment  of  the  old,  —  a  purpose  which  can  be  satis- 
fied only  through  the  other  tones  of  its  chord.  Hence 
the  tension  of  conflicting  expectations  and  the  excite- 
ment as  now  the  one  and  now  the  other  is  fulfilled  in 
the  succeeding  notes.  Yet,  since  all  other  harmonies 
are  subordinated  to  the  tonic  harmony,  and  even 
through  their  very  opposition  increase  our  desire  for 
it,  they  must  give  way  to  the  fundamental  purpose 
with  which  we  started;  and  when  the  tonic  does 
eventually  triumph,  it  fulfills  not  only  itself,  but  all 
lesser  desires  of  the  melody;  in  it  we  find  what  we 
have  been  seeking,  we  arrive  where  we  set  out  to  go. 
And  in  this  success  we  not  only  obtain  what  we  first 
wanted,  but  more  —  an  experience  enriched  by  every 
conflict,  and  harmonious  ultimately  through  the  inner 
adjustment  and  resolution  of  its  elements ;  for  in  hear- 
ing the  final  note  we  hear  the  memories  of  all  previous 
tones,  also.  When  the  departures  from  the  keynote 
are  many  and  distant  and  sudden,  and  the  melody 
wanders  into  the  bypaths  of  foreign  harmonies, 
moving  along  broken  and  zigzag  lines,  it  expresses 
an  exciting,  a  dangerous  and  difficult  adventure ;  when, 
however,  the  departures  are  gradual  and  confined  for 
the  most  part  within  the  limits  of  a  single  harmony, 
moving  in  a  smooth  and  curving  path,  it  expresses  a 
life  that  is  secure  and  happy,  tending  to  repose  as 
the  line  approaches  the  horizontal,  and  as  repetitions 
of  the  same  note  predominate. 


168  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

Rhythm  enters  into  melody  to  differentiate  and 
emphasize.  By  means  of  accent  and  time-value, 
the  different  tones  are  weighted  and  their  relative  value 
fixed.  The  heavy  tones  assert  their  will  with  a  more 
insistent  energy ;  the  long  tones  upon  which  we  linger 
make  a  deeper  and  more  lasting  impression ;  while 
the  light  and  short  tones  in  contrast  become  points 
of  mere  passing  and  transition.  If,  moreover,  we  in- 
clude the  element  of  tempo,  then  all  the  temporal 
feelings  are  introduced  into  melody  —  the  excitement 
of  rapid  motion,  the  calmness  of  the  slow ;  the  agony 
of  delay,  of  waiting  and  postponement,  with  the  triumph 
and  relief  when  the  expected  note  arrives  at  last. 
Finally,  the  effects  of  shading  must  be  added,  the 
contrasts  between  piano  and  forte  —  loudness  that 
brings  the  tones  so  near  that  they  may  seem  threaten- 
ing in  their  insistence ;  softness  that  makes  them  seem 
far  away  and  dreamlike. 

Following  the  large  idea  introduced  by  Schopenhauer, 
which  was  enriched  by  the  minuter  studies  of  Lotze, 
Wundt,  and  Lipps,  we  may  sum  the  foregoing  analysis 
in  the  statement  that  music  expresses  the  abstract 
aspects  of  action,  its  ease  or  difficulty,  its  advance 
or  retrocession,  its  home  coming  or  its  wandering,  its 
hesitation  or  its  surety,  its  conflicts  and  its  contrasts, 
its  force  or  its  weakness,  its  swiftness  or  slowness,  its 
abruptness  or  smoothness,  its  excitement  or  repose, 
its  success  or  failure,  its  seriousness  or  play.  Then, 
in  addition,  as  we  shall  see,  all  modes  of  emotion  that 
are  congruous  with  this  abstract  form  may  by  asso- 
ciation be  poured  into  its  mold,  so  that  the  content 
of  music  becomes  not  a  mere  form  of  life,  but  life  itself. 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Music  169 

It  is,  of  course,  obvious  that  our  analysis  has  confined 
itself  to  the  barest  elements  of  the  musical  experience. 
Our  music  to-day,  with  its  many-voiced  harmonies, 
with  its  procession  of  chords  instead  of  single  tones, 
with  its  modulation  into  related  keys,  has  an  infinite 
wealth  and  complexity  defying  description.  A  large 
part  of  the  astonishing  effect  of  music  is  derived  from 
the  fact  that  in  a  brief  space  we  seem  to  hear  and  absorb 
so  much  :  the  careers  of  multitudinous  lives  compressed 
into  an  instant.  Yet  the  meaning  of  the  complex  whole 
can  be  understood,  I  think,  from  such  an  analysis  of 
the  simple  structure  as  has  been  given. 

The  methods  by  which  the  larger  musical  wholes  are 
built  up  illustrate  principles  of  aesthetic  structure 
with  which  we  are  already  familiar.  There  is  the 
harmonious  unification  of  parts  through  the  simple 
repetition  of  motives,  their  inversion  or  imitation  in 
higher  or  lower  keys,  either  successively  or  simul- 
taneously ;  the  execution  of  the  same  theme  in  another 
time  or  tempo;  and  through  the  interweaving  of 
themes.  There  is  the  balance  of  contrasted  or  compet- 
ing themes ;  the  subordination  of  the  lesser  to  the  more 
striking  and  insistent  motives ;  the  preparation  for, 
emergence  and  triumph  of,  a  final  passage  that  re- 
solves all  dissonances  and  adjusts  all  conflicts.  Be- 
cause of  music's  abstractness,  the  connection  be- 
tween the  parts  of  a  musical  composition  may  be 
loose  or  subtle,  taxing  the  synthetic  powers  even  of 
the  educated  listener;  yet  some  contrast  or  analogy 
of  feeling  must  always  unite  them.  The  structure  of 
the  whole  may  be  either  static  or  dramatic;  in  the 
former  case  the  dramatic  element  is  confined  to  the 


170  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

themes,  the  purpose  of  the  whole  being  merely  to 
work  out  all  their  significant  variations,  —  to  embroider 
and  repeat  them  in  new  keys  and  rhythms  and  tempos, 
and  to  contrast  them  with  other  themes.  Repetition 
is  the  great  creative  principle  of  musical  development, 
the  composer  seeking  to  say  over  again  in  ever  new 
forms  what  he  has  said  before.  And  this,  again  be- 
cause of  the  abstractness  of  music,  is  a  significant 
process ;  to  repeat  the  concrete  is  tiresome  and  trivial, 
but  an  abstract  form  is  always  enriched  by  appearing 
in  a  new  shape. 

The  explanation  of  musical  expression  thus  far 
given,  although  it  suffices  to  account  for  the  basis  of 
all  musical  feeling,  is,  I  think,  inadequate  to  its  full 
volume  and  intensity.  There  is  a  concreteness  of 
emotional  content  in  some  musical  compositions  — 
an  arousal  of  terror  and  longing  and  despair  and  joy 
-  infinitely  richer  than  any  abstract  forms  of  feeling. 

To  account  for  this,  two  sources  of  explanation 
suggest  themselves.  First,  the  arousing  of  emotions 
through  deep-lying  effects  of  rhythm.  It  is  a  well- 
known  fact,  cited  in  most  discussions  of  this  subject, 
that  the  motor  mechanism  of  the  body  is  somehow 
attuned  to  rhythm.  When  we  hear  rhythmical  sounds, 
we  not  only  follow  them  with  the  attention,  we  follow 
them  also  with  our  muscles,  with  hand  and  foot  and 
head  and  heart  and  respiratory  apparatus.  Even 
when  we  do  not  visibly  move  in  unison  with  the 
rhythm  —  as  we  usually  do  not  —  we  tend  to  do  so, 
which  proves  that  in  any  case  the  motor  mechanism 
of  the  body  is  stimulated  and  brought  into  play  by 
the  sounds.  There  is  a  direct  psychophysical  connec- 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Music  171 

tion  between  the  hearing  of  rhythmic  sounds  and  the 
tendency  to  execute  certain  movements.  But  there 
is  an  equally  direct  relation  between  emotions  and 
tendencies  to  movements,  through  which  the  former 
find  expression  and  are  given  effect  in  the  outer  world. 
To  every  kind  of  emotion  —  love  and  hate  and  fear 
and  sorrow  and  joy  —  there  corresponds  a  specific 
mode  of  motor  manifestation.  The  connection  be- 
tween rhythmic  sound  and  emotion  is  therefore  plain ; 
the  link  is  a  common  motor  scheme.  Rhythms  arouse 
into  direct  and  immediate  activity  the  motor  "  sets  " 
that  are  the  physical  basis  of  the  emotions,  and  hence 
arouse  the  corresponding  emotions  themselves,  with- 
out any  ground  for  them  outside  of  the  organism. 
And  these  emotions,  since  they  are  aroused  by  the 
sounds  and  not  by  any  object  to  which  they  might  be 
directed  and  upon  which  they  might  work  themselves 
off  in  a  meaningful  reaction,  are  interwoven  into  the 
sounds,  —  they  and  the  sounds  come  to  us  as  a  single 
indissoluble  whole  of  experience.  The  emotions  be- 
come the  content  of  the  sounds.  And  hence  the 
strangeness  of  the  musical  experience  —  the  fact  that 
we  feel  so  deeply  over  nothing. 

The  second  cause  for  the  concreteness  of  the  musical 
experience  I  take  to  be  certain  emotions  and  feelings 
which  are  aroused  by  association,  not  with  the  rhythmic 
elements  of  music  alone,  but  with  the  tone-color, 
intensity,  and  melody  also.  There  is  a  human  quality, 
a  poignancy  and  intimacy,  about  much  music,  which 
can  be  understood  only  through  its  analogy  with  the 
sounds  of  the  human  voice.  For  the  human  voice 
is  emotionally  expressive  through  its  mere  sound 


172  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

alone :  one  can  know  a  large  part  of  what  is  going  on 
in  the  breasts  of  people  who  talk  in  a  foreign  tongue 
just  by  listening  to  the  sound  of  their  voices  —  their 
excitement  or  boredom,  their  anger,  love,  or  resent- 
ment; and  one  becomes  conscious  of  these  emotions, 
as  in  hearing  music,  without  knowing  what  they  are 
all  about.  All  human  emotions  betray  themselves 
in  speech  through  the  rise  and  fall,  range  of  intervals, 
loudness  or  softness,  tempo  and  differences  of  duration 
of  tone.  Now,  although  it  is  far  too  much  to  say 
that  music  is  actually  an  imitation  of  the  voice,  it  is 
nevertheless  true,  as  Diderot  thought,  that  in  certain 
musical  passages  we  overhear  the  voice.  There  is 
never  any  exact  similarity  between  music  and  vocal 
sounds,  but  there  is  enough  resemblance  to  awaken 
by  association  the  feelings  that  are  the  normal  accom- 
paniments of  such  sounds.  Any  tone  analogies  that 
there  happen  to  be  are  felt  as  such.  This  is  notably 
true  of  all  music  that  has  a  peculiar  lyrical  and  human 
quality,  —  the  music  that  readily  becomes  popular 
because  it  seems  to  speak  direct  to  the  heart.  Orig- 
inally, all  music  was  song,  and  since  speech  and 
song  employ  the  same  organ,  it  would  be  surprising 
indeed  if  something  of  the  same  expression  of  the 
emotions  that  overflows  into  the  one  should  not  also 
overflow  into  the  other,  and  that  musicians  should 
not,  unconsciously  or  consciously,  tend  to  choose 
their  melodies  because  of  such  analogies.  Instru- 
mental music  probably  got  its  first  melodies  from  song, 
and  despite  its  vast  present  complexity  and  independ- 
ence, has  never  completely  lost  touch  with  song. 
Since  the  first  meaningful  sounds  that  we  hear  are 


The  .Esthetics  of  Music  173 

those  of  the  voice,  music  must  always  have  for  us  the 
significance  of  a  glorified  speech. 

The  fault  of  the  original  proposers  of  the  speech 
theory  was  that  they  thought  it  a  complete  explana- 
tion of  the  facts  of  musical  expression.  Its  explanatory 
value  is,  however,  strictly  limited,  and  supplemental 
to  the  more  basic  considerations  adduced ;  yet  it 
remains  a  necessary  part  of  the  complex  theory  of  the 
complex  fact  we  are  studying.  And  the  acceptance  of 
it  as  such  does  not  imply  a  belief  in  the  speech  theory 
of  the  origin  of  music.  Song  did  not  grow  out  of 
impassioned  speech,  but  arose  coeval  with  speech, 
when  men  found  —  perhaps  by  accident  —  that  they 
could  make  with  their  voices  pure  and  pleasing  tones 
and  intervals  of  tones,  and  express  something  of  their 
inner  selves  in  so  doing.  Yet,  as  I  have  suggested, 
it  would  be  strange  if  speech  did  not  react  upon  song 
-  if  the  first  vocal  tones  were  not  purified  words, 
and  the  first  intervals  an  approximation  to  those  of 
speech.  Thus  in  song,  lyric  poetry  and  music  arose 
together  as  a  single  art  for  the  expression  of  feeling, 
until  the  development  of  instrumental  music  freed 
the  one  and  the  invention  of  writing  freed  the  other; 
while  speech  kept  to  its  different  and  original  purpose  — 
the  expression  of  ideas  for  practical  ends,  and  produced 
an  aesthetic  form  of  its  own  only  at  a  later  period  and 
under  independent  influences. 

The  complete  understanding  of  musical  expression 
involves,  finally,  as  was  suggested  at  the  beginning 
of  this  chapter,  the  recognition  of  the  analogy  that 
exists  between  music  and  the  noises  produced  by 
nature  and  human  activities.  Through  the  imitation 


174  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

of  their  rhythm,  force,  and  tempo,  some  of  these  can 
be  directly  suggested  by  musicians.  Yet  this  direct 
suggestion,  although  employed  by  the  greatest  com- 
posers, plays  a  subordinate  part  in  music,  and,  since 
it  introduces  an  element  of  representation  of  the  outer 
world  —  tonmalerei  —  is  usually  felt  to  involve  a 
departure  from  the  prime  purpose  of  music :  the 
expression  of  the  inner  world  through  the  emotional 
effects  of  pure  sound.  In  the  best  program  music, 
therefore,  the  purpose  of  the  composer  is  not  the  mere 
imitation  of  nature  —  which  is  never  art  at  all,  and  in 
music  is  always  recognized  as  an  unsesthetic  tour  de 
force  of  mere  cleverness  —  but  rather  the  arousal  of 
the  feelings  caused  by  nature.  And  as  an  aid.  in  the 
expression  of  such  feelings,  imitation,  when  delicately 
suggestive  rather  than  blatant,  will  always  play  a  part. 
There  are,  however,  subtler  and  remoter  analogies 
between  music  and  noise,  which  produce  their  effects 
whether  the  musician  wills  them  or  not.  Such,  for 
example,  are  loud  bursts  of  tone  suggesting  falling  or 
crashing,  events  which  usually  have  a  terrifying  signif- 
icance; crescendoes,  suggesting  the  approach  of 
things,  so  often  full  of  expectancy  and  excitement; 
diminuendoes,  suggesting  a  gradual  departure  or 
fading  away,  bearing  relief  or  regret.  And  there  are 
doubtless  hundreds  of  other  such  associations,  too 
minute  or  remote  or  long-forgotten  to  recover,  which 
add  their  mite  of  feeling  to  swell  and  make  vast  the 
musical  emotion.  As  Fechner  pointed  out,  these 
associations  may  work  quite  unconsciously,  giving 
evidence  of  their  functioning  only  through  the  feeling 
tones  which  they  release.  So  important  is  the  part 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Music  175 

which  sound  plays  in  our  lives  that  there  must  be  an 
especially  large  number  of  such  underground  associa- 
tions aroused  by  music.  All  of  our  experiences  are 
connected  together  by  subconscious  filiation ;  but  it 
is  only  in  art  that  their  residual  feeling  tones  have  a 
full  opportunity  to  come  into  the  mind ;  for  in  every- 
day life  they  are  crowded  out  by  the  hurry  of  practical 
concerns.  In  the  earlier  stages  of  the  development 
of  music  they  must  have  contributed  a  still  larger 
share  to  musical  expression,  when  the  different  forms 
of  music  were  connected  by  habit  and  convention 
with  particular  crises  and  occasions,  religious,  domes- 
tic, and  social,  in  the  life  of  individuals  and  groups. 
But  even  to-day,  despite  the  new  freedom  of  music, 
they  ate  not  absent. 

Looking  back  over  our  analysis  of  music,  we  see  that 
it  is  characterized  by  the  expression  of  emotion  with- 
out the  representation  of  the  causes  or  objects  of 
emotion.  This  fact,  which  has  now  become  a  well- 
recognized  part  of  aesthetic  theory,  distinguishes  music 
from  all  the  other  arts.  Music  supplies  us  with  no 
definite  images  of  nature,  as  painting  and  sculpture 
do,  and  with  no  ideas,  as  poetry  does.  It  contains 
feelings,  but  no  meanings.  Music  offers  us  no  back- 
ground for  emotion,  no  objects  upon  which  it  may  be 
directed,  no  story,  no  mise  en  scene.  It  supplies  us 
with  the  feeling  tones  of  things  and  events,  but  not 
with  the  things  or  events  themselves.  It  moves 
wholly  in  a  world  of  its  own,  a  world  of  pure  feeling, 
with  no  embodiment  save  only  sound.  It  may  express 
terror,  but  not  terror  over  this  or  that ;  joy,  but  whether 
the  joy  that  comes  from  sight  of  the  morning  or  of  the 


176  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

beloved,  it  cannot  tell.  In  one  brief  space  of  time, 
it  may  arouse  despair,  hope,  triumph  —  but  all  over 
nothing. 

Yet  —  and  this  is  the  central  paradox  of  music  — 
despite  its  abstractness,  nay,  because  of  this  very 
quality,  it  remains  the  most  personal  and  intimate 
of  the  arts.  For,  itself  offering  no  images  of  things 
and  events  to  which  we  may  attach  the  feelings  which 
it  arouses,  we  supply  our  own.  We  fill  in  the  imper- 
sonal form  of  musical  feeling  with  the  concrete  emo- 
tions of  our  own  lives;  it  is  our  strivings,  our  hopes 
and  fears,  which  music  expresses.  By  denying  us 
access  to  the  world  about  us,  music  compels  us  to  turn 
in  upon  ourselves ;  it  is  we  who  live  there  in  the  sounds. 
For,  as  we  have  seen,  the  rhythmic  tones  seize  hold 
not  only  of  our  attention,  but  of  our  bodies  also  —  hand 
and  foot  and  head  and  heart,  resounding  throughout 
the  whole  organism.  And,  where  our  bodies  are, 
there  are  we.  Moreover,  our  life  there  in  the  sounds 
need  not  remain  without  objects  because  the  music 
does  not  describe  them  to  us ;  for  out  of  our  own  inner 
selves  we  may  build  up  an  imaginary  world  for  our 
feelings.  As  we  listen  to  the  music,  we  shall  see  the 
things  we  hope  for  or  fear  or  desire ;  or  else  transport 
ourselves  among  purely  fanciful  objects  and  events. 
Music  is  a  language  which  we  all  understand  because 
it  expresses  the  basic  mold  of  all  emotion  and  striving ; 
yet  it  is  a  language  which  no  two  people  understand  in 
the  same  way,  because  each  pours  into  that  mold 
his  own  unique  experience.  In  itself  abstract  and 
objectless,  it  may  thus  become,  in  varying  ways, 
concrete  and  alive. 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Music  177 

The  great  variety  in  the  interpretation  of  musical 
compositions  has  often  been  used  as  an  argument 
against  the  existence  of  emotions  in  music,  but  is,  as 
we  have  seen,  the  inevitable  result  of  their  abstract- 
ness.  This  abstractness  may,  indeed,  be  so  great  that 
apparently  opposite  concrete  emotions,  such  as  love 
and  religious  adoration,  despair  and  joy,  may  be  aroused 
in  different  people,  according  to  different  circumstances, 
by  the  same  piece.  The  music  of  the  opera  can  be 
used  in  the  cathedral.  Yet  strikingly  dissimilar 
emotions  have  common  elements  —  worship  is  the 
love  of  God ;  joy  may  be  a  rage  equally  with  disap- 
pointment ;  and  at  their  highest  intensity,  all  opposed 
emotions  tend  to  pass  over  into  each  other :  hope  into 
fear,  love  into  hate,  exaltation  into  depression.  The 
elementary  feelings  out  of  which  our  complex  emotions 
are  built  are  few  and  simple ;  hence  each  one  of  the 
latter  is  identical  in  some  ingredients  with  the  others. 
And  even  the  elementary  feelings  may  have  common 
aspects  of  intensity  and  tempo,  of  strain  and  excitement. 
Some  musical  compositions,  like  the  fugues  of  Bach, 
seem  to  express  nothing  more  than  such  extremely 
abstract  modes  of  feeling,  without  arousing  any  asso- 
ciations that  would  impel  the  mind  to  make  a  more 
concrete  interpretation.  To  express  feelings  of  this 
kind  in  language  is,  of  course,  impossible,  for  the  reason 
that  our  emotional  vocabularies  have  been  constructed 
to  communicate  only  the  emotions  of  everyday  life. 
Other  types  of  music  —  like  the  romantic  tone  poetry 
of  a  later  day  —  which  are  more  abundant  in  their 
associations,  and  hence  richer  in  their  emotional 
content,  are  difficult  of  translation  for  another  reason : 


178  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

the  rapidity  of  succession  and  subtlety  of  intermixture 
of  the  expressed  feelings  are  beyond  the  reach  of  words, 
even  of  a  poet's,  which  inevitably  stabilize  and  isolate 
what  they  denote. 

But  abstract  and  objectless  emotions  occur  in  other 
regions  of  experience  beside  the  musical,  even  beyond 
the  entire  field  of  the  aesthetic.  All  except  the  most 
healthy-minded  and  practical  people  are  at  times 
filled  with  vague  fears,  longings,  and  joys,  the  objects 
or  causes  of  which  they  cannot  formulate.  Normally, 
feeling  is  directed  towards  definite  objects  and  leads 
to  action  upon  them,  but  may  nevertheless  become 
isolated  from  its  proper  connections,  and  function 
without  issue.  The  extreme  cases  of  this  are  the 
pathological  states  of  mania  and  depression,  where 
such  feelings  assume  proportions  dangerous  to  the 
existence  of  the  individual.  Intoxication  and  hysteria 
present  analogous,  though  more  transient  phenomena. 
And  one  may  observe  the  autonomous  development  of 
mere  feeling  even  in  the  healthy  life,  as  when  one 
remains  jolly  after  all  occasion  for  it  has  ceased,  or 
angry  after  the  cause  for  anger  has  been  removed. 
All  feelings  tend  to  acquire  a  strength  beyond  what 
is  necessary  for  action  and  to  endure  after  their  proper 
objects  and  conditions  have  disappeared;  hence  the 
luxury  of  grief  and  revenge  and  sentimentality. 

In  their  most  general  character,  musical  emotions 
stand  on  a  level  with  other  purposeless  emotions,  except 
that  they  are  deliberately  induced  and  elaborated  to 
an  extent  and  complexity  unmatched  elsewhere. 
But  while  these  emotions  are  morbid  and  evil  outside 
of  music,  within  music  they  are  innocent.  For  outside 


The  .Esthetics  of  Music  179 

of  music  they  spring  from  dislocations  of  the  practical 
and  striving  core  of  the  personality,  where,  if  persist- 
ently indulged  in,  they  exacerbate  the  disturbance 
of  which  they  are  the  sign,  interfering  with  action  and 
eventually  endangering  the  health  and  happiness  of 
the  individual ;  while  in  music,  being  induced  from 
the  outside  by  mere  sounds,  they  have  no  ground 
within  the  personality  itself  where  they  can  take  root, 
and  hence  exert  only  a  harmless  and  transient  effect 
upon  the  mind ;  they  belong  to  the  surface,  not  to  the 
substance  of  the  self,  to  imagination,  not  to  the  will. 
Or  when,  as  sometimes  happens,  the  deeper  and  perhaps 
morbid  strata  of  the  self  are  reached  by  the  sounds, 
the  feelings  which  are  awakened  from  their  sleep  there, 
where  they  might  be  productive  of  evil  dreams,  find 
an  orderly  and  welcome  release  in  the  sounds  —  they 
are  not  only  aroused,  but  carried  off  by  the  music. 
This  the  Greeks  understood  when  they  employed  music 
as  a  healer  of  the  soul  and  called  this  effect  catharsis. 

If,  indeed,  music  were  just  a  means  for  the  arousal 
of  feelings,  it  would  not  be  a  fine  art,  but  an  orgy. 
For,  in  order  to  be  aesthetic,  feelings  must  be  not  merely 
stimulated  by,  but  objectified  in,  the  sense  medium, 
where  they  can  be  mastered  and  known.  But  the 
intimacy  of  music  is  not  in  contradiction  with  the 
freedom  and  objectivity  characteristic  of  all  art. 
For  musical  feelings,  although  they  are  experienced  as 
our  own,  are  nevertheless  also  experienced  as  the 
sounds;  in  music  we  live,  not  as  we  live  ordinarily, 
within  our  bodies,  but  out  there,  in  a  rarer  and  unprac- 
tical medium  —  tone.  And  in  this  new  region  we 
gain  dominion  over  our  feelings,  through  the  order 


180  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

which  the  form  of  the  music  imposes  upon  them,  and 
also  self-knowledge,  because,  in  being  externalized 
in  the  sounds,  our  feelings  become  an  object  for  our 
reflection  and  understanding.  In  music  the  light  of 
reflection  is  turned  straight  upon  ourselves. 

The  poignancy  of  music  depends  upon  just  this 
fact  that  through  it  we  get  a  revelation  of  ourselves  to 
ourselves.  In  the  other  arts,  this  revelation  is  indirect, 
occurring  through  the  representation  of  the  lives  of 
other,  real  or  fictitious,  personalities ;  but  in  music, 
it  is  direct ;  for  there  the  object  of  expression  is  oneself. 
Even  in  the  lyric  poem,  where  the  reader  and  the  poet 
tend  to  become  identical,  the  unity  is  less  complete; 
for  when  embodied  in  words,  feelings  become  more 
exterior  than  when  put  forth  into  tones;  a  tone  is 
closer  to  the  self,  because  like  a  cry  or  a  laugh,  it  is 
less  articulate.  Moreover,  words  are  means  of  com- 
munication as  well  as  expression;  they  therefore 
embody  of  any  experience  only  as  much  as  can  be 
passed  from  speaker  to  hearer;  the  unique  is  for  the 
most  part  lost  on  the  way ;  but  in  music  the  full  per- 
sonal resonance  of  experience  is  retained.  In  music 
we  get  so  close  to  ourselves  that  at  times  it  is  almost 
frightening. 

And  this  is  the  reason  why,  on  all  the  high  or  serious 
occasions  of  human  life,  music  is  alone  adequate  to 
express  its  inner  meaning.  At  a  marriage  or  a  funeral, 
in  church  or  at  a  festival,  the  ceremonial  is  traditional 
and  social ;  it  expresses  the  historical  and  group  signif- 
icance of  the  situation,  but  not  that  which  is  unique 
and  just  one's  own;  it  always  contains,  moreover, 
much  that  is  outgrown  and  unacceptable  —  a  creed  of 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Music  181 

life  or  love  or  death  that  belongs  to  the  past,  not  to  us. 
But  the  music  embodies  all  that  we  really  believe  and 
feel  about  the  fact,  its  intimate,  emotional  essence, 
clear  of  everything  irrelevant  and  external. 

But  music  does  more  than  express  the  inexpressible 
in  ourselves ;  it  gives  us  entrance  into  a  supernatural 
world  of  feeling.  Except  at  the  rare  high  moments 
of  our  lives,  its  joys  and  despairs  are  too  exalted  for 
us ;  they  are  not  ours ;  they  belong  to  gods  and  heroes. 
In  music  the  superman  is  born  into  our  feelings.  Music 
does  for  the  emotions  what  mythology  and  poetry 
do  for  the  imagination  and  philosophy  for  the  intellect 
—  it  brings  us  into  touch  with  a  more  magnificent 
life,  for  which  we  have  perhaps  the  potency,  but  not 
the  opportunity  here.  And  in  doing  this,  music  per- 
forms a  great  service;  for,  outside  of  love  and  war, 
life,  which  offers  endless  occasions  for  intense  thought 
and  action,  provides  few  for  passionate  feeling. 

Thus  far  our  study  of  the  art  has  been  confined  to 
so-called  absolute  music.  We  must  now  complete 
our  survey  by  a  rapid  consideration  of  the  union  of 
music  with  the  other  arts.  Because  of  its  abstractness, 
music,  of  all  the  arts,  lends  itself  most  readily  to  com- 
bination with  others ;  yet  even  in  the  case  of  music 
the  possibility  of  union  is  limited  by  the  existence  of 
a  clear  identity  between  the  arts  combined.  Thus, 
music  goes  well  with  the  temporal  arts,  poetry,  the 
dance,  and  the  drama,  and  particularly  well  with  the 
first  two  because  they  are  rhythmical;  it  will  also 
unite  with  architecture,  because  that  is  another  abstract 
art;  but  with  the  static,  concrete  arts  like  painting 
and  sculpture,  it  will  not  fuse.  One  might  perhaps 


182  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

accompany  a  picture  with  a  single  chord  whose  emo- 
tional meaning  was  the  same  as  that  of  the  color  scheme 
and  the  objects  represented,  but  not  with  more;  for 
the  aesthetic  experience  of  the  picture  is  instantaneous 
and  complete,  while  that  of  the  music  requires  time 
for  its  development  and  fruition ;  hence  the  two  would 
soon  fall  apart,  and  a  person  would  either  have  to  ignore 
the  music  or  cease  to  look  at  the  picture. 

Originally,  of  course,  music  was  always  combined 
with  some  other  art,  and  first  of  all,  probably  with 
the  dance.  In  its  earliest  form,  the  dance  was  a  com- 
munal religious  expression,  about  which  we  shall  have 
little  to  say,  since  it  belongs  to  the  past,  not  to  living 
art.  For  to-day  the  dance  is  a  free  art  like  music. 
The  beauty  of  the  dance  consists,  first,  in  the  free  and 
rhythmical  expression  of  impulses  to  movement.  This 
expression,  which  is  direct  for  the  dancer  who  actually 
carries  out  her  impulses  in  real  motion,  is  for  the 
spectator  indirect  and  ideal,  for  he  experiences  only 
movement-images  aroused  by  movements  seen,  and 
then,  by  feeling  these  into  the  limbs  of  the  dancer, 
dances  with  her  in  the  imagination.  And  to  secure 
this  free  and  large,  even  though  vicarious,  expression 
of  pent-up  impulses  to  movement  is  very  grateful 
to  us  whose  whole  movement  life  is  impoverished, 
because  restricted  by  convention  and  occupation  to 
a  few  narrow  types.  But  the  dance  would  have  little 
interest  for  men  were  it  not  for  another  element  in 
its  beauty :  the  expression  of  the  amorous  feelings 
of  the  spectator.  These,  although  really  located  in 
the  breast  of  the  spectator,  are  nevertheless  embodied 
in  the  personality  of  the  dancer,  whose  charm  they 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Music  183 

constitute.  Finally,  the  content  of  the  dance  may 
be  further  enriched  through  the  use  of  symbolic  cos- 
tume and  mimetic  gestures,  suggesting  emotions  like 
joy  or  love  or  grief,  emotionally  toned  ideas  like  spring, 
or  actions  such  as  courtship.  Now  music,  with  its 
own  rhythmical  order  and  voluminous  emotional  con- 
tent, has  an  obvious  kinship  with  the  rhythmic  form 
and  amorous  substance  of  the  dance,  and  so  can  well 
serve  to  accompany  it. 

The  result  of  the  union  is  to  enforce  the  rhythmic 
experience  through  the  medium  of  sound,  the  dance 
keeping  time  with  the  music,  and,  through  the  height- 
ened emotional  tone  and  increased  suggestibility 
created  by  the  music,  to  deepen  the  sympathetic 
rapport  between  dancer  and  spectator.  Thus  the 
music  is  given  a  concrete  interpretation  through  the 
dance,  and  the  dance  gains  in  emotional  power  through 
the  music.  In  the  union,  the  gain  to  the  dance  is 
clear  and  absolute ;  but  the  music  pays  a  price  for  the 
concreteness  of  content  which  it  secures,  by  forfeiting 
its  power  to  express  chance  inner  moods  —  what  it 
gains  in  definiteness  it  loses  in  scope  and  universality. 
And  only  music  with  a  strong  and  evident  rhythm  is 
capable  of  union  with  the  dance;  the  more  complex 
and  subtle  music,  aside  from  the  impossibility  of  mak- 
ing its  delicate  rhythms  fit  into  those  of  a  dance,  has 
a  variety  and  sublimity  of  meaning  so  far  transcend- 
ing the  personality  of  any  human  being,  that  to  attempt 
to  focus  it  in  a  dancer,  no  matter  how  charming,  would 
be  a  travesty. 

Of  equal  naturalness  and  almost  equal  antiquity 
with  the  union  of  music  with  the  dance,  is  its  union 


184  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

with  poetry.  In  song  this  union  is  a  real  fusion; 
for  the  tones  are  the  vocal  word-sounds  themselves, 
purified  into  music.  Here,  of  course,  unlike  absolute 
music,  the  tones  are  expressive,  not  only  as  other  tones 
are  through  their  mere  sound,  but  also  through  their 
meaning.  And  this  can  well  be ;  for  as  Schopenhauer 
remarked,  just  as  the  universal  may  be  illustrated  by 
any  object  which  embodies  it,  so  the  vague  musical 
content  of  a  tone  may  be  fused  with  the  concrete 
meaning  of  a  word  of  like  feeling.  And  for  many 
hearers  music  doubtless  gains  by  thus  becoming  ar- 
ticulate ;  for,  being  unable  to  supply  out  of  their  own 
imagination  the  concreteness  which  music  lacks,  they 
welcome  having  this  done  for  them  by  the  poet;  yet 
the  gain  is  not  without  a  corresponding  loss.  For 
when  the  musical  meaning  is  specialized  through  the 
emotions  that  are  the  burden  of  the  song,  it  necessarily 
loses  the  power  which  it  would  otherwise  have  of 
expressing  one's  own  inner  life  —  once  more,  what 
it  gains  in  definiteness  it  loses  in  scope.  It  no  longer 
possesses  the  unique  function  of  the  musical.  Hence, 
if  we  love  the  music,  we  shall  not  care  whether  or 
not  we  understand  the  meaning  of  the  words,  and  what 
we  shall  value  in  the  song  will  be  only  the  peculiar 
intimacy  which  it  derives  from  its  instrument,  the 
voice.  Only  rarely  is  it  otherwise,  as  in  some  of  the 
songs  of  Schumann,  when  the  poetic  interpretation  is 
so  beautiful  and  so  completely  at  one  with  the  musical 
feeling,  that  we  prefer  to  accept  it  rather  than  substitute 
our  own  interpretation  for  the  poet's.  But  even  so, 
the  music,  if  genuine,  will  have  value  without  the  words. 
At  the  opposite  pole  are  those  songs,  often  popular, 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Music  185 

where  the  music,  having  little  worth  in  itself,  is  a  mere 
accompaniment  for  the  words.  In  all  cases,  however, 
the  music  can  lend  to  the  poetry  some  of  the  intimacy 
which  is  its  own,  so  that  its  burden  has  a  deeper  echo 
in  the  soul. 

Yet  much  of  poetry  is  unfit  for  union  with  music. 
This  is  true,  first,  of  all  highly  intellectual  poetry, 
where  the  emotions  are  embodied  in  complex  and 
abstract  ideas.  One  could  not,  for  example,  readily 
set  Browning  to  music.  Music  may  be  deep,  mystic, 
even  metaphysical  in  its  meaning,  but  it  cannot  be 
dialectical.  The  emotions  that  accompany  subtle 
thought,  even  when  intense,  are  not  of  the  voluminous, 
massive  kind  which  music  expresses;  they  lack  the 
bodily  resonance  of  the  latter;  they  are,  moreover, 
clean-cut  and  static,  while  in  music  everything  flows 
in  half-lights,  like  a  river  moving  in  moonlight.  On 
the  other  hand,  poems  which  express  rapidly  develop- 
ing states  of  mind,  which  contain  quick,  subtle  transi- 
tions, are  equally  unfit  for  union  with  music.  For 
music,  although  always  in  motion,  is  always  in  slow 
motion ;  it  needs  time  to  get  under  way,  and  time 
for  its  development  in  embroidering,  varying,  and 
repeating  its  theme.  And  this  difficulty  applies  in  a 
general  way  to  every  union  between  poetry  and  music. 
For  words  are  primarily  practical  and  communicative, 
and  therefore  cut  short  the  passion  which  they  express ; 
whereas  tones,  never  having  had  any  other  purpose 
than  expression,  draw  it  out  and  let  it  have  its  way. 
Moreover,  poetry,  because  of  its  definiteness,  is  com- 
patible with  only  a  limited  range  of  variation,  beyond 
which  it  becomes  monotonous,  while  music,  because 


186  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

of  its  abstractness,  permits  of  variations  almost  end- 
less, and  is  enriched  by  every  new  shape  in  which 
its  meaning  can  appear.  If,  therefore,  poetry  is  to 
keep  time  with  the  slow  movement  of  the  music  and 
conform  to  its  mode  of  development,  the  verses  have 
to  be  repeated  again  and  again ;  but  this  destroys  the 
poetic  form  —  as  in  the  oratorio,  with  its  senseless 
iterations. 

Finally,  the  temporal  and  developmental  character 
of  the  drama  would  seem  to  fit  it  for  union  with  music. 
Yet  the  union  of  these  two  arts  is  confronted  with  the 
same  difficulties  that  beset  the  connection  between 
poetry  and  music.  The  movement  of  the  acting  drama 
is  swift  and  straight,  that  of  music  is  slow  and  cir- 
cular ;  hence  if  the  music  is  to  have  its  way,  the  action 
of  the  drama  must  stand.  In  consequence  of  this, 
there  is  little  real  action  in  most  operas,  prolonged 
dialogues  in  song  taking  its  place.  Only  rarely  —  as 
for  example  in  Strauss'  "  Salome, "  perhaps  —  is  the 
form  of  the  drama  preserved.  As  a  rule  the  unity  of 
the  musical  form  is  also  destroyed,  the  thread  of  the 
story  being  substituted  for  it.  Last,  as  in  the  song, 
the  universality  of  the  music  is  renounced  in  favor 
of  the  interpretation  given  to  it  by  the  program. 
In  the  leit-motif,  indeed,  as  Wagner  uses  it,  where 
a  musical  phrase  is  provided  with  a  fixed  connotation 
of  ideas  and  acts  which  is  understood  by  the  hearer 
whenever  it  recurs,  opera  ceases  to  be  music  at  all  in 
the  strict  sense,  and  becomes  a  musical  language.  Yet 
in  the  opera,  as  in  the  song,  the  music,  when  genuine, 
possesses  its  own  independent  meaning,  which  can  be 
appreciated  without  the  mise  en  scene  or  the  program. 


The  Esthetics  of  Music  187 

And  then  only  rarely,  as  in  the  Toreador  song  in  "Car- 
men," is  the  action  so  close  to  the  inner  meaning  of 
the  music,  that  the  latter  seems  to  gain  by  the  inter- 
pretation. 

It  follows  that  Wagner's  dream  of  making  the  opera 
a  sum  of  all  the  values  of  poetry,  drama,  and  music, 
and  so  an  art  more  beautiful  than  any  one  of  them,  is 
fallacious.  For,  as  we  have  repeatedly  seen,  in  uniting 
the  arts,  there  is  gain  as  well  as  loss;  something  of 
the  form  or  meaning  of  each  has  to  be  sacrificed.  The 
work  that  results  from  the  combination  is  really  a  new 
art-form,  in  which  the  elements  are  changed  and  their 
individuality  partly  destroyed ;  and  its  value  is  a 
new  value,  which  may  be  equal  to,  but  is  certainly  no 
greater  than,  that  of  any  other  art-form.  To  put 
the  matter  epigrammatically,  when  the  arts  are  added 
together,  one  plus  one  does  not  equal  two,  but  only 
one  again. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  .ESTHETICS  OF  POETRY 

OUR  study  of  music  in  the  preceding  chapter  has 
prepared  us  for  the  study  of  poetry,  for  the  two  arts 
are  akin.  Both  are  arts  of  sound  and  both  employ 
rhythm  as  a  principle  of  order  in  sound.  They  had  a 
twin  birth  in  song,  and  although  they  have  grown  far 
apart,  they  come  together  again  in  song.  In  many 
ways,  music  is  the  standard  for  verse.  Yet,  despite 
these  resemblances,  the  differences  between  the  arts 
are  striking.  In  place  of  music's  disembodied  feel- 
ings, poetry  offers  us  concrete  intuitions  of  life,  —  the 
rehearsal  of  emotions  attached  to  real  things  and  clean- 
cut  ideas.  Poetry  is  a  music  with  a  definite  meaning, 
and  that  is  no  music  at  all.  Much  of  poetry,  gnomic 
and  narrative,  probably  grew  out  of  speech  by  regu- 
larizing its  natural  rhythm,  independent  of  music. 
To-day  poetry  is  written  to  be  read,  not  to  be  sung ; 
it  is  an  art  of  speech,  not  of  song. 

All  speech  is  communication,  an  utterance  from  a 
speaker  to  a  hearer.  In  the  case  of  ordinary  speech, 
the  aim  is  to  effect  some  change  of  mind  in  the  inter- 
locutor that  will  lead  to  an  action  beneficial  to  one  or 
both  of  the  persons  concerned.  Ordinary  speech  is 
practical^  its  end  is  to  influence  conduct;  it  is  com- 
mand, exhortation,  prayer,  or  threat.  Poetry,  on  the 

138 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Poetry  189 

i  other  hand,  is  "the  spontaneous  overflow  of  powerful 
feelings" ;  its  purpose  is  to  express  life  for  the  sake  of 
the  values  which  expression  itself  may  create,  and  to 
communicate  them  to  others.1  The  values  are  given 
in  the  utterance  itself;  they  do  not  have  to  be  waited 
for  to  come  from  something  which  may  develop  sub- 
sequently. They  are  the  universal  aesthetic  values 
which  may  result  from  any  free  expression  of  life  —  the 
contemplative  reliving  of  its  joys,  or  the  mastery  of 
its  pains  through  the  courageous  facing  of  them  in 
reflection. 

Since  the  appeal  of  poetry  is  to  the  sympathy  and 
thoughtfulness  which  all  men  possess,  there  is  no  need 
that  it  be  directed,  as  ordinary  speech  is,  to  particular 
men  and  women  whose  help  or  advantage  is  sought. 
The  poet  addresses  himself  to  man  in  general,  and  only 
so  to  you  and  me.  Even  when  ostensibly  directed  to 
some  particular  person,  a  poem  has  an  audience  which 
is  really  universal.  Except  in  the  first  moment  of 
creative  fervor,  the  friend  invoked  is  never  intended 
to  be  the  sole  recipient  of  the  poet's  words.  Often- 
times the  poet  appeals  to  the  dead  or  to  natural  objects 
which  cannot  hear  him.  One  might  perhaps  infer 
from  this  that  there  is  no  genuine  impulse  to  com- 
munication in  poetry ;  that  it  is  pure  expression,  a 
dialogue  with  self.  But  this  would  be  a  false  infer- 
ence ;  for  there  is  always  some  hint  in  every  poem  that 
a  vague  background  of  possible  auditors  is  bespoken. 
No  matter  how  intimate  and  spontaneous,  no  poem 

1  Compare  F.  N.  Scott,  "The  Most  Fundamental  Differentia  of  Poetry 
and  Prose,"  in  Modern  Language  Association  Publications,  V,  19,  pp.  250- 
269. 


190  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

/can  escape  being  social,  and  hence,  in  varying  degrees, 
self-conscious.  Art  is  autonomous  expression  meant 
to  be  contagious. 

The  appeal  of  scientific  expression  is  also  to  something 
universal  in  men  —  to  their  love  of  knowledge  and 
understanding.  But  there  is  this  difference  between 
poetry  and  science :  science  seeks  merely  the  intel- 
lectual mastery  of  things  and  ideas,  and  so  is  careless 
of  their  values;  while  poetry,  even  when  descriptive 
or  thoughtful,  ever  has  life  as  its  theme  —  the  way 
man  reacts  to  his  environment  and  his  thought.  Poetry 
is  never  purely  descriptive  or  dialectical.  And  this 
difference  in  the  substance  of  the  expression  deter- 
mines a  difference  in  the  direction  of  interest  within 
the  expression.  In  scientific  expression,  words  lead 
us  away  to  things  —  pure  description,  or  to  their 
meanings  —  mathematics  and  dialectic ;  but  in  poetry, 
since  the  values  which  we  attach  to  things  and  ideas 
come  from  within  out  of  ourselves  and  are  embodied 
in  the  words,  they  keep  us  to  themselves ;  we  dwell  in 
the  expression  itself,  in  the  verbal  experience  —  its 
total  content  of  sounds  which  we  hear,  ideas  which 
we  understand,  and  feelings  which  we  appreciate,  is 
of  worth  to  us. 

Since  poetry  is  an  art  of  speech,  we  can  understand 
it  only  through  a  study  of  words,  which  are  its  media, 
A  single  word  is  seldom  an  integral  element  of  speech ; 
yet  it  may  fairly  be  called  the  atom,  the  ultimate  con- 
stituent of  speech.  Now  a  word  is  a  structure  of  a 
potentially  fourfold  complexity.  First,  it  is  a  phe- 
nomenon of  sound  and  movement  —  something  heard 
and  uttered.  Its  sound,  and  the  movement-sensations 


« 

The  ^Esthetics  of  Poetry  191 

from  vocal  cords  and  tongue  and  lips  which  accompany 
its  production,  are  the  sensuous  shell  of  the  word. 
Second,  embodied  in  this  as  the  speaker  utters  it,  or 
associated  to  it  as  the  hearer  understands  it,  is  its 
meaning.  The  meaning  is  either  an  idea  of  a  concrete 
thing  or  situation,  or  an  abstraction.  This  is  the 
irreducible  minimum  of  a  word,  but  is  seldom  all. 
For,  in  poetry,  some  emotional  response  to  the  object 
meant  by  the  word  impels  to  its  utterance,  and  this 
is  embodied  in  it  when  it  is  uttered,  and  a  similar 
feeling  is  awakened  in  the  auditor  when  it  is  heard  or 
read.  A  word  not  only  mirrors  a  situation  through  its 
meaning,  but  preserves  something  of  the  mind's  re- 
sponse ;  it  communicates  the  total  experience,  —  the 
self  as  well  as  the  object.  Finally,  the  meaning  of  a 
word  may  not  remain  a  mere  idea,  but  may  grow  out 
into  one  or  more  of  the  concrete  images  of  which  it  is 
the  residuum.  When,  for  example,  I  utter  the  word 
"ocean,"  I  may  not  only  know  what  I  mean  and 
reexperience  my  joy  in  the  sea,  but  my  meaning  may 
be  clothed  in  images  of  the  sight  and  touch  and  odor  of 
the  sea  —  vicariously,  through  these  images,  all  my 
sense  experiences  of  the  sea  may  be  present  in  the 
mind.  A  word,  therefore,  sounds  and  is  articulated, 
means,  expresses  feeling,  and  evokes  images.  All 
understanding  of  poetry  depends  upon  the  knowledge 
and  proper  evaluation  of  the  functioning  of  these 
aspects  of  a  word.  Let  us  consider  in  a  general  way 
each  one  of  them. 

In  ordinary  speech,  the  sound  and  articulation  of  a 
word,  although  indispensable  to  utterance,  and  there- 
fore a  necessary  part  of  it,  are  of  little  or  no  value  in 


192  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

themselves ;  for  our  interest  is  centered  upon  the  mean- 
ing or  upon  the  action  which  is  expected  to  result 
from  its  understanding.  We  do  not  attend  to  the 
quality  and  rhythm  of  the  word-sounds  which  we 
utter  or  hear,  and  the  articulatory  sensations,  although 
felt,  have  only  a  shadowy  existence  in  "the  fringe  of 
inattention."  But  in  poetry,  which  is  speech  made 
beautiful,  the  mere  sound  of  the  words  has  value.  In 
hearing  poetry,  we  not  only  understand,  but  listen; 
we  appreciate  not  only  the  ideas  and  emotions  con- 
veyed, but  the  word-sounds  and  their  rhythms  as  well. 
Even  in  silent  reading,  poetry  is  a  voice  which  we 
delight  to  hear.1 

Yet,  despite  the  importance  which  sound  acquires 
in  poetry,  it  never  achieves  first  place;  it  never_bfir 
comes  independent,  as  in  music ;  but  shares  hegemony 
with  the  other  aspects  of  the  word.  In  practical  or 
scientific  speech,  the  chief  aspect  is  meaning;  for  it  is 
the  meaning  which  gives  us  knowledge  and  guides  our 
acts.  Indeed,  for  all  practical  purposes,  the  meaning 
of  words  consists  in  the  actions  which  are  to  be  per- 
formed on  hearing  them.  If  I  ask  a  man  the  way  and 
he  tells  me,  the  quality  of  his  voice,  the  interest  which 
he  takes  in  telling  me,  and  the  images  which  float 
across  his  mind  are  of  no  importance  to  me,  so  long  as 
I  can  follow  his  directions.  But  in  poetry  the  situa- 
tion alters  once  more.  For  there,  since  expression 

1  And  for  many  this  "inner  speech"  consists  quite  as  much  of  articula- 
tion as  of  sound.  The  "sound"  of  a  word  is  really  a  complex  of  actual 
sounds  plus  associated  articulation  impulses.  Throughout  the  remainder 
of  this  chapter,  when  I  refer  to  the  sound  of  words,  I  shall  have  in  mind 
this  entire  complex.  We  may  therefore  say  that  in  silent  reading  poetry 
is  a  voice  which  we  delight  both  to  hear  and  to  use. 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Poetry  193 

itself  has  become  the  end,  and  all  action  upon  it  is 
inhibited,  the  feeling  which  prompts  it  becomes  a 
significant  part  of  what  I  appreciate.  In  poetry  the 
meanings  are  secondary  to  emotions.  Yet  the  mean- 
ings are  still  indispensable;  for  they  indicate  the  con- 
crete objects  or  ideas  towards  which  emotion  is  directed. 
In  ordinary  speech,  meanings  are  guides  to  action;  in 
aesthetic  speech,  they  are  formulations  of  feelings. 
And  just  in  this  power  of  a  word  to  fixate  emotion 
lies  the  chief  difference  between  poetry  and  music, 
where  feeling,  being  aroused  by  sound  alone,  is  vagu 
and  objectless. 

Ideally,  every  word  in  a  poem  should  be  charged 
with  feeling ;  but  actually  this  is  not  the  case,  for  many 
words,  taken  by  themselves,  are  too  abstract  or  com- 
monplace to  possess  any.  Words  all  too  familiar,  or 
connectives,  like  "and"  and  "but"  and  "or,"  are 
examples  of  this;  the  former  may  be  avoided  by  the 
poet,  but  the  latter  are  indispensable.  Originally, 
no  doubt,  every  word  had  an  emotional  coloring,  if 
only  that  of  a  child's  curiosity ;  and  some  words  have 
meanings  too  deeply  rooted  in  feeling  ever  to  lose  it. 
No  amount  of  familiarity  can  deprive  such  words  as 
"death"  and  "love"  and  "God"  of  their  emotional 
value.  Words  like  these  must  forever  recur  in  the 
vocabulary  of  poets.  Yet,  since  in  living  discourse  a 
meaning  is  seldom  complete  in  a  single  word,  but 
requires  several  words  in  a  phrase  or  sentence,  a  word 
which  by  itself  would  be  cold  may  participate  in  the 
general  warmth  of  the  whole  of  which  it  is  a  part. 
Consider,  for  example,  the  last  line  of  the  final  stanza 
of  Wordsworth's  "The  Lost  Love"  :  — 


194  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  O ! 

The  difference  to  me ! 

The  first  three  words,  by  themselves,  are  completely 
bare  of  emotional  coloring,  yet,  taken  together  with 
the  last,  and  in  connection  with  the  whole  stanza,  and 
in  the  setting  of  the  entire  poem,  they  are  aglow  with 
the  most  poignant  passion. 

As  for  the  image,  the  last  of  the  aspects  of  a 
word,  the  judgment  of  Edmund  Burke,  in  his  "Essay 
on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful"  still  remains  true:  in 
reading  words  or  in  listening  to  them,  we  get  the  sound 
and  the  meaning  and  their  "impressions"  (emotions), 
but  the  images  which  float  across  the  mind,  if  there 
are  any,  are  often  too  vague  or  too  inconstant  to  be  of 
much  relevance  to  the  experience.  They  are,  more- 
over, highly  individual  in  nature,  differing  in  kind  and 
clearness  from  person  to  person.  The  recent  researches 
into  imageless  thinking  are  a  striking  confirmation  of 
Burke's  observation.  It  is  now  pretty  clearly  estab- 
lished that  the  meaning  of  words  is  something  more 
than  the  images,  visual  or  other,  which  they  arouse. 
Probably  the  meaning  is  always  carried  by  some  sort 
of  imagery,  differing  with  the  mental  make-up  of  the 
reader,  but  the  meaning  cannot  be  equated  to  the 
imagery.  For  example,  you  and  I  both  understand 
the  word  "ocean";  but  when  I  read  the  word,  I  get 
a  visual  image  of  green  water  and  sunlight,  while  you 
perhaps  get  an  auditory  image  of  the  sound  of  the 
waves  as  they  break  upon  the  shore.  Sound,  meaning, 
feeling,  these  are  the  essential  constituents  of  dis- 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Poetry  195 

course;  imagery  is  variable  and  accidental.  It  is 
impossible,  therefore,  to  found  the  theory  of  poetry 
on  the  image-making  power  of  words.1  And  yet, 
imagery  plays  a  primary  role  in  poetic  speech.  For, 
as  we  have  observed  so  often,  feelings  are  more  vital 
and  permanent  when  embedded  in  concrete  sensations 
and  images  than  when  attached  to  abstract  meanings. 
Through  the  image,  the  poet  confers  upon  his  art  some 
of  the  sensuousness  which  it  would  otherwise  lack. 
It  is  not  necessary  that  the  image  appear  clear  in  the 
mind ;  for  its  emotional  value  can  be  conveyed  even 
when  it  is  obscure  and  marginal.  When,  for  example, 
we  read, 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 
As  benefits  forgot, 

the  word  "  bitter  "  may  arouse  no  vivid  gustatory  image, 
the  word  "  bite  "  no  clear  image  of  pain ;  yet  even  when 
these  images  are  very  dim,  they  serve  none  the  less  to 
establish  the  feeling  of  intense  disagreeableness  which 
the  poet  wishes  to  convey.  Poetry,  therefore,  because 
it  is  more  emotional  than  ordinary  speech,  is  more 
abundantly  imaginal. 

Having  distinguished  in  a  general  way  the  four 
elements  of  speech  —  sound,  meaning,  feeling,  and 
imagery  —  we  are  prepared  to  study  them  singly  in 
greater  detail.  We  want  to  build  out  of  a  study  of 
these  elements  a  synthetic  view  of  the  nature  and 
function  of  poetry,  and  apply  our  results  to  some  of 

1  For  the  opposite  view,  consult  Max  Eastman :  The  Enjoyment  of 
Poetry. 


196  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

its  newer  and  more  clamant  forms.  Let  us  begin 
with  sound.  In  our  first  chapter  we  observed  that  the 
medium  of  an  art  tends  to  become  expressive  in  itself, 
-  that  in  poetry  the  mere  sound  and  articulation  of 
words,  quite  apart  from  anything  which  they  mean, 
may  arouse  and  communicate  feelings.  What  we  have 
called  the  primary  expressiveness  of  the  medium  is 
nowhere  better  illustrated  than  in  poetry.  But  just 
what  is  expressed  through  sound,  and  how  ? 

Every  lover  of  poetry  is  aware  of  the  large  share 
which  the  mere  sound  of  the  words  contributes  to  its 
beauty.  This  is  true~~even  when  we  abstract  from 
rhythm,  which  we  shall  neglect  for  the  time  being,  and 
think  only  of  euphony,  alliteration,  assonance,  and 
rime.  There  is  a  joy  truly  surprising  in  the  mere 
repetition  of  vowels  and  consonants.  For  myself,  I 
find  a  pleasure  in  the  mere  repetition  of  vowels  and 
consonants  all  out  of  proportion  to  what,  a  priori,  I 
should  be  led  to  expect  from  so  slight  a  cause.  And 
yet  we  have  the  familiar  analogies  by  means  of  which 
we  can  understand  this  seemingly  so  strange  delight, 
the  repeat  in  a  pattern,  consonance  in  chord  and 
melody.  If  the  repetition  of  the  same  color  or  line  in 
painting,  the  same  tone  in  music,  can  delight  us,  why 
not  the  repetition  of  the  same  word-sound?  In  all 
cases  a  like  feeling  of  harmony  is  produced.  And  the 
same  general  principle  applies  to  explain  it.  All 
word-sounds  as  we  utter  or  hear  them  leave  memory 
traces  in  the  mind,  which  are  not  pure  images  (no 
memory  traces  are),  but  also  motor  sets,  tendencies 
or  impulses  to  the  remaking  of  the  sounds.  The 
doing  of  any  deed  —  a  word  is  also  a  deed  —  creates  a 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Poetry  197 

will  to  its  doing  again;  hence  the  satisfaction  when 
that  will  is  fulfilled  in  the  repeated  sound,  when  the 
image  melts  with  the  fact.  And  the  same  law  that 
rules  in  music  and  design  holds  here  also :  there  must 
not  be  too  much  of  consonance,  of  repetition,  else  the 
will  becomes  satiated  and  fatigued;  there  must  be 
difference  as  well  as  identity,  —  the  novelty  and  sur- 
prise which  accompany  the  arousal  of  a  still  fresh  and 
unappeased  impulse.  This  is  well  provided  for  in 
alternate  rimes,  where  the  will  to  one  kind  of  sound  is 
suspended  by  the  emergence  of  a  different  sound  with 
its  will,  and  where  the  fulfillment  of  the  one  balances 
the  fulfillment  of  the  other.  All  these  facts  are  illus- 
trated in  such  a  stanza  as  this :  — 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun 

Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages ; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone  and  ta'en  thy  wages; 
Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 

As  chimney  sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Here,  for  example,  the  "f  "-sound  in  "fear"  finds  har- 
monious fulfillment  in  "furious";  the  "t "-sound  in 
"task,"  its  mate  in  "ta'en";  the  "g"-sound  in 
"golden,"  its  match  in  "girls";  "sun"  and  "done," 
"rages"  and  "wages,"  illustrate  a  balance  of  har- 
monies; while  in  the  consonance  of  "must"  and 
"dust,"  the  whole  movement  of  the  stanza  comes  to 
full  and  finished  harmony. 

Thus  taken  together,  word-sounds,  as  mere  sounds,- 
are  expressive  of  the  general  form-feelings  of  harmony 
and  balance.     But  can  they  express  anything  singly? 


198  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

Is  there  anything  in  poetry  comparable  to  the  expres- 
siveness of  single  tones  or  of  colors  like  red  and  blue  and 
yellow?  To  this,  I  think,  the  answer  must  be,  little 
or  nothing.  Almost  all  the  expressiveness  of  single 
words  comes  from  their  meaning.  At  all  events,  the 
sound  and  meaning  of  a  word  are  so  inextricably  fused 
that,  even  when  we  suspect  that  it  may  have  some 
expressiveness  on  its  own  account,  we  are  nearly  in- 
capable of  disentangling  it.  As  William  James  has 
remarked,  a  word-sound,  when  taken  by  itself  apart 
from  its  meaning,  gives  an  impression  of  mere  queer- 
ness.  And  when  it  does  seem  to  have  some  distinctive 
quality,  we  do  not  know  how  much  really  belongs  to 
the  sound  and  how  much  to  some  lingering  bit  of 
meaning  which  we  have  failed  to  separate  in  our 
analysis.  For  example,  because  of  its  initial  "s"- 
sound  and  its  hard  consonants,  the  word  "struggle" 
seems  to  express,  in  the  effort  required  to  pronounce 
it,  something  of  the  emotional  tone  of  struggle  itself ; 
but  how  do  we  know  that  this  is  not  due  to  the  asso- 
ciation with  its  meaning,  which  we  have  been  unable 
to  abstract  from?  Even  true  onomatopoetic  words 
like  "bang"  or  "crack"  derive,  I  suspect,  most  of 
their  specific  quality  from  their  meaning.  They  do 
have,  to  be  sure,  a  certain  mimetic  impressiveness  as 
mere  sounds ;  but  that  is  very  vague ;  the  meaning 
makes  it  specific.  The  sheer  length  of  the  word 
"multitudinous"  in  Shakespeare's  line,  "the  multitu- 
dinous seas  incarnadine,"  seems  to  express  something 
of  the  vastness  and  prolixity  of  the  seas ;  but  would  it 
if  it  were  not  used  as  an  adjective  describing  the  seas, 
and  if  it  did  not  have  just  the  meaning  that  it  has? 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Poetry  199 

Of  course,  in  this  case,  the  mere  sound  is  effective,  but 
it  gets  most  of  its  effectiveness  because  it  happens  to 
have  a  certain  meaning.  Moreover,  even  the  very 
sound  quality  of  words  depends  much  upon  their  mean- 
ing ;  we  pronounce  them  in  a  certain  way,  with  a  cer- 
tain slowness  or  swiftness,  a  certain  emphasis  upon  par- 
ticular syllables,  with  a  high  or  low  intonation,  in 
accordance  with  the  emotion  which  we  feel  into  them. 
This  is  true  of  the  word  "struggle"  just  cited.  Or  con- 
sider another  example.  Take  the  word  "blow."  Who, 
in  reading  this  word  in  "Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind," 
would  not  increase  its  explosiveness  just  in  order  to 
make  its  expressiveness  correspond  to  its  meaning? 

There  is,  therefore,  a  fundamental  difference  in  this 
respect  between  single  word-sounds  and  single  colors 
or  tones ;  they  are  not  sufficiently  impressive  in  them- 
selves, not  sufficiently  separable  from  their  meanings,  / 
to  have  anything  except  the  slightest  value  as  mere 
sounds.  In  collocation,  however,  and  quite  apart 
from  rhythm  and  alliteration,  this  minute  expressive- 
ness may  add  up  to  a  considerable  amount.  In 
Matthew  Arnold's  lines, 

Swept  by  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flight 
Where  ignorant  armies  crash  by  night, 

the  hardness  and  difficulty  of  the  consonants  in  their 
cumulative  force  become  an  independent  element  of 
expressiveness,  strengthening  that  of  the  meaning  of 
the  words.  Or  in  Tennyson's  oft-quoted  line,  "the 
murmuring  of  innumerable  bees,"  the  sounds  taken 
together  have  a  genuine  imitative  effect,  in  which 
something  of  the  drowsy  feeling  of  the  hive  is  present. 


200  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

Following  the  general  law  of  harmony  between  form 
and  content,  the  beauty  of  sound  should  be  functional ; 
that  is,  it  should  never  be  developed  for  its  own  sake 
alone,  but  also  to  intensify,  through  reexpression,  the 
mood  of  the  thoughts.  The  sound-values  are  too  lack- 
ing in  independence  to  be  purely  ornamental.  Poetry 
does  indeed  permit  of  embellishment  —  the  pleasurable 
elaboration  of  sensation  —  yet  should  never  degenerate 
into  a  mere  tintinnabulation  of  sounds.  The  rimes  in 
binding  words  should  bind  thoughts  also;  the  tonali- 
ties or  contrasts  of  vowel  and  consonant  should  echo 
harmonies  or  strains  in  pervasive  moods. 

It  is  by  rhythm,  however,  that  the  chief  expressive- 
ness of  the  mere  medium  is  imparted  to  verse.  But 
here  again  we  shall  find  sound  and  meaning  intertwined 
—  a  rhythm  in  thought  governing  a  rhythm  in  sound. 

Only  as  a  result  of  recent  investigations  can  a  satis- 
factory theory  of  modern  verse  be  constructed.  The 
making  of  this  theory  has  been  largely  hampered,  on 
the  one  hand,  by  the  application  of  the  quantitative 
principles  of  classical  verse  to  our  poetry ;  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  by  forcing  the  analogy  between  music  and 
verse.  The  insufficiency  of  the  quantitative  scheme 
for  English  verse  is  not  difficult  to  perceive.  Such  a 
scheme  presupposes  that  syllables  have  a  fixed  quantity 
of  duration,  as  either  long  or  short,  and  that  rhythm 
consists  in  the  regularity  of  their  distribution.  But, 
although  there  are  differences  in  the  duration  of 
syllables,  some  being  longer  than  others,  there  are  no 
fixed  rules  to  determine  whether  a  syllable  is  short  or 
long;  and,  what  is  a  more  serious  objection,  it  is  im- 
possible to  find  any  regularity  in  the  occurrence  of 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Poetry  201 

shorts  and  longs  in  normal  English  verse,  —  in  all 
verse  that  has  not  been  written  with  the  explicit  pur- 
pose of  imitating  the  Greek  or  Latin.  An  examina- 
tion of  any  line  of  verse  will  verify  these  statements. 
Take,  for  example,  the  first  three  lines  of  Shakespeare's 
song, 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 

Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude. 

Here  the  quantitative  scansion  is  perhaps  as  follows  :  - 


I  have  given  the  word  "so"  a  double  scansion  because 
I  conceive  it  impossible  to  determine  whether  it  is 
really  long  or  short.  At  any  rate,  there  is  certainly 
no  regularity  in  the  distribution  of  shorts  and  longs, 
except  in  the  last  of  the  three  lines,  and  no  correspond- 
ence, except  in  that  line,  between  the  quantitative 
scansion  and  the  rhythmical  movement  of  the  verses. 
And  whenever  such  a  correspondence  exists,  it  is  due 
either  to  the  fact  that  the  incidence  of  stress  tends  to 
lengthen  a  syllable  or  to  the  fact  that,  oftentimes,  in 
polysyllabic  words,  mere  length  will  produce  a  stress. 
This  is  the  modicum  of  truth  in  the  quantitative  view. 
But  obviously  stress  governs,  quantity  obeys. 

Although  the  quantitative  theory  of  modern  verse 
has  been  pretty  generally  abandoned,  it  cannot  be 
said  that  the  ordinary  view  which  regards  the  foot  as 
the  unit  of  verse  and  its  rhythm  as  determined  by  a 
regular  distribution  of  accented  and  unaccented  sylla- 
bles, is  in  a  much  better  case.  For  in  the  first  place, 


202  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

by  accent  is  usually  meant  word-accent;  but  mono- 
syllabic words  have  no  word-accent ;  hence,  in  a  suc- 
cession of  such  syllables,  the  accent  must  be  determined 
by  some  other  factor;  and,  granting  this,  there  is  the 
further  fact  to  be  reckoned  with,  that  poetic  accent  is 
relative  —  the  supposedly  unaccented  syllable  is  often 
very  highly  accented,  more  highly  in  fact  than  some  of 
the  so-called  accented  ones.  Consider,  for  example, 
the  line,  "From  sullen  earth  sings  hymns  at  heaven's 
gate,"  where  the  word  "sings,"  which  in  accordance 
with  the  conventional  iambic  scansion  would  be  an 
unaccented  syllable,  is  really  strongly  accented,  more 
strongly,  indeed,  than  "earth"  which  has  an  accent.  As 
for  the  division  of  the  line  into  feet,  that  is  a  pure  arti- 
fice :  who,  in  the  actual  reading  of  the  above  line,  would 
divide  the  words  "sullen"  and  "heaven"  into  two  parts? 

^The  basis  of  rhythm  is,  therefore,  not  word-accent, 
^alue  stress  is  the  basis.1  Certain  words,  because  of 
their  logical  or  emotional  importance,  have  a  greater 
claim  upon  the  attention,  and  this  inner  stress  finds 
outward  expression  in  an  increased  loudness,  duration, 
and  explosiveness  of  sound.  Stress  coincides  with  the 
word-accent  of  polysyllabic  words  because  the  accent 
is  placed  on  those  syllables,  usually  the  root-syllables, 
which  carry  the  essential  meaning.  And  this  stress 
is  not  simply  present  or  absent  in  a  syllable,  but  greater 
in  some  than  in  others ;  in  iambic  rhythm,  usually 
greater  in  the  even  than  in  the  preceding  odd  syllable ; 
in  trochaic,  greater  in  the  odd  than  in  the  immediately 
preceding  even  one.  The  rhythm  is  rather  an  undula- 

1  Throughout  the  discussion  of  rhythm  I  borrow  from  Mark  H.  Liddell : 
An  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  Poetry. 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Poetry  203 

tion  of  stresses  than  an  alternation  of  stress  and  lack 
of  stress,  something,  therefore,  far  more  complex  and 
variegated  than  the  old  scheme  would  imply.  And 
of  this  undulation,  not  the  foot,  but  the  line  is  the  unit. 
The  character  of  the  undulation  of  the  whole  line 
determines  the  type  of  the  rhythm,  which  may  be 
very  different  in  the  case  of  lines  of  precisely  the  same 
kind  of  "feet."  For  example,  the  line  quoted  above, 
"From  sullen  earth  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate," 
has  a  distinctly  different  rhythm  from  such  another 
iambic  line  as  "Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's 
day  ?  "  This  difference  is  due,  in  part  at  least,  to  the 
fact  that  the  highest  peaks  of  the  wave  in  the  former 
are  in  the  center  of  the  line,  in  "sings"  and  "hymns," 
while  in  the  latter  they  are  at  the  end,  in  "summer's" 
and  "day."  This  undulation  of  stress  is  present  in 
prose  and  in  ordinary  speech ;  for  there  also  there  is  a 
rise  and  fall  of  stress  corresponding  to  the  varying 
values  of  the  words  and  syllables ;  but  in  prose,  the 
undulation  is  irregular,  while  in  poetry,  it  is  regularized. 
From  the  foregoing  it  is  clear  that  rhythm  does  not 
exist  in  the  mere  sound  of  the  words  alone,  but  in  the 
thought  back  of  them  as  well.  The  sounds,  as  such, 
have  no  rhythm  in  themselves;  they  acquire  rhythm 
through  the  subjective  processes  of  significant  utter- 
ance or  listening.  The  rhythm  is  primarily  in  these 
activities,  and  from  them  is  transferred  to  the  sounds 
in  which  they  are  embodied.  This  comes  out  with 
additional  force  when  we  go  farther  into  the  analysis 
of  the  rhythm  of  verse.  We  have  just  seen  that  the 
line  is  one  unit  of  the  rhythm  (this  is  true  even  when 
there  are  run-over  lines,  because  we  make  a  slight  pause 


204  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

after  the  ends  of  such  lines  too) ;  but  within  the  line 
itself  there  are  sub-units.  These  sub-units  are  units 
of  thought.  Every  piece  of  written  or  spoken  lan- 
guage is  a  continuous  flow  of  thought.  But  the 
movement  is  not  perfectly  fluid;  for  it  is  broken  up 
into  elementary  pulses  of  ideas,  following  discontinu- 
ously  upon  each  other.  In  prose  the  succession  of 
pulses  is  complex  and  irregular,  without  any  obvious 
pattern;  but  in  poetry  the  movement  is  simple  and 
regular  and  the  pattern  is  clear.  Just  as  in  poetry 
there  is  a  rhythm  of  stress  which  represents  a  regulariz- 
ing of  the  natural  undulations  in  the  stress  of  speech, 
so  there  is  also  a  more  deep-lying  rhythm,  which  arises 
through  a  simplification  and  regularizing  of  the  move- 
ment of  thought-pulsations.  The  fundamental  rhythm 
consists  in  an  alternation  of  subject-group  and  predi- 
cate-group. 

This  duality,  although  always  retained  as  basal, 
may,  however,  be  broken  up  into  a  three-  or  four-part 
movement  whenever  the  connecting  links  between  the 
subject-idea  and  the  predicate-idea  acquire  sufficient 
importance,  or  whenever  the  one  or  the  other  of  the 
two  becomes  sufficiently  complex  to  consist  of  lesser 
parts.  For  example,  in  Shakespeare's  thirty-first  son- 
net, the  thought-divisions  are  three  for  each  of  the 
following  lines :  — 

Thy  bosom  |  is  endeared  |  with  all  hearts 
Which  I  by  lacking  |  have  supposed  |  dead ; 
And  there  |  reigns  love,  |  and  all  love's  loving  parts, 
And  all  those  friends  |  which  I  thought  |  buried. 

These  divisions  are  marked  by  pauses  or  caesuras. 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Poetry  205 


Here,  then,  in  the  regularizing  of  the  number  of 
thought-pulsations,  we  have  another  type  of  rhythm 
in  poetry,  and  a  rhythm  which,  coming  from  within, 
finds  outward  expression  in  sound.  Cutting  across 
the  rhythm  of  stress,  it  breaks  up  the  latter  with  its 
pauses,  and  imparts  to  the  whole  movement  variety 
and  richness. 

But  speech  has  not  only  its  natural  rhythm  of  stress- 
undulation  and  thought-pulsations ;  it  has  also,  as 
we  saw  in  the  last  chapter,  a  melody.  The  rise  and 
fall  of  stress  goes  hand  and  hand  with  a  rise  and  fall 
of  pitch.  The  different  forms  of  discourse,  and  the 
different  emotions  that  accompany  them,  are  each 
expressed  with  characteristic  variations  in  pitch.  Ac- 
cepting Wundt's  summary  of  the  facts,  we  find  that, 
generally  speaking,  in  the  declarative  statement  and 
the  command,  the  pitch  rises  in  the  first  thought- 
division,  to  fall  in  the  second ;  while  in  the  question 
and  the  condition,  the  pitch  rises  and  falls  in  the  first, 
and  then  rises  again  in  the  second.  Doubt,  expecta- 
tion, tension,  excitement  —  all  the  forward  looking 
moods  of  incompleteness  —  tend  to  find  expression  in 
a  rising  melody ;  while  assurance,  repose,  relaxation, 
fulfillment,  are  embodied  in  a  falling  melody.  The 
high  tones  are  dynamic  and  stimulating ;  the  low  tones, 
static  and  peaceful.  Now  in  ordinary  speech  and 
prose,  the  change  from  one  tone  to  another  is  constant 
and  irregular,  following  the  variation  of  mood  in  the 
substance  of  the  discourse.  How  is  it  with  verse? 
There  is  a  simplification  and  tonality  —  identity  in 
tone  —  which  is  absent  from  prose.  The  melody  is 
more  obvious  and  distinctive,  because  there  is  a  greater 


206  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

simplicity  in  sentence  structure  and  a  higher  unity  of 
mood.  Yet  there  is  no  absolute  regularity;  and  the 
amount  of  it  differs  with  the  different  kinds  of  poetry : 
there  is  more  in  the  simple  lyric  than  in  the  complex 
narrative;  more,  for  example,  in  Shakespeare's  son- 
nets than  in  his  dramas.  The  inexpressible  beauty  of 
some  lines  of  verse  comes  doubtless  from  a  fugitive 
melody  which  we  now  grasp,  now  lose. 

The  existence  of  speech  melody  and  the  tonalities 
of  rime,  assonance,  and  alliteration  suggest  an  analogy 
between  verse  and  music.  For  some  people,  this 
analogy  is  decisive.  Yet  the  fundamental  difference 
between  music  and  verse  must  be  insisted  on  with 
equal  force;  the  purity  of  tone  and  fixity  of  intervals 
between  tones,  which  is  distinctive  of  music,  is  absent 
from  verse.  In  comparison  with  music,  the  melodious- 
ness of  verse  is  confused  and  chaotic;  and  this  con- 
demns to  failure  any  attempt  to  identify  the  laws  of 
the  two  arts.  Still,  we  are  not  yet  at  the  end  of  the 
analogy.  Those  who  interpret  verse  in  terms  of  music 
believe  that,  underlying  or  supplanting  the  rhythm  of 
stress,  there  is  another  rhythm,  similar  to  time  in 
music,  and  capable  of  expression  in  musical  language. 
There  is,  it  is  claimed,  an  equality  of  duration  between 
one  line  and  another,  and  between  one  foot  in  a  line 
and  another ;  these  larger  and  lesser  stretches  of  dura- 
tion being  divided  up  between  syllables  and  pauses, 
each  syllable  and  pause  occupying  a  fixed  quantity  of 
time ;  just  as  in  music  each  bar  is  divided  up  between 
notes  and  rests  of  definite  value.  Lanier,  for  example, 
writes  the  first  line  of  Poe's  "Raven"  as  follows : l  — 

1  The  Science  of  English  Verse,  p.  128. 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Poetry  207 

f r  nr  t  [: r n 

Once  up  |  on  a  |  mid-night  |  drear-y ; 

Fascinating  as  this  procedure  is,  it  is  nevertheless 
a  distortion  of  the  facts.  Poetry  is  meant  to  be  read, 
not  to  be  sung;  when  it  is  put  to  music  and  sung,  it 
acquires  a  character  which  otherwise  does  not  belong 
to  it.  We  must  not  be  misled  by  the  historical  con- 
nection between  verse  and  song,  nor  by  the  frequency 
with  which  some  verses  are  set  to  music.  Our  poetry 
must  be  understood  as  we  experience  it  to-day,  not  as 
it  was  experienced  in  its  origins.  And  there  is  surely 
much  poetry  which  no  one  wants  to  sing.  No  one 
wants  to  sing  a  sonnet  or  Miltonic  blank  verse.  The 
attempt  to  apply  musical  notation  to  verse  is  a  tour  de 
force.  Careful  observation  and  experience  show  that 
the  syllables  in  verse  have  no  fixed  duration  values,  and 
that  there  is  no  constant  ratio  between  them. 

Nevertheless,  musical  time  is  not  wholly  absent  from 
verse.  You  cannot  set  it  to  the  metronome  or  express 
it  in  musical  notation,  yet  it  is  there.  When  lines  have 
the  same  number  of  syllables,  the  time  required  to 
read  them  is  approximately  the  same,  and  we  tend  to 
make  the  duration  of  the  thought-divisions  equal.  Our 
time-sense  is  so  fallible,  we  do  not  notice  the  departures 
from  exactness;  and  when  the  durations  of  processes 
are  nearly  equal  and  the  values  which  we  attach  to 
them  are  equal,  then  we  are  conscious  of  them  as  equal. 
Attention- value  and  time- value  are  subjectively  equiva- 
lent. Words  which  weigh  with  us  give  us  pause,  and 
we  reckon  in  the  time  of  the  pause  to  make  up  for  a 
deficiency  in  the  time  required  to  read  or  utter  the 


208  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

syllables.  And  so  time-rhythm  enters  as  still  another 
factor  in  the  complex  rhythm  of  verse. 

The  importance  of  this  rhythm  differs,  however,  with 
the  different  kinds  of  verse.  In  lyric  poetry  closely 
allied  to  song,  it  is  clear  and  strong ;  while  in  the  more 
reflective  and  dramatic  poetry,  it  is  only  an  undertone. 
In  some  cases,  as  in  the  nursery  rime, 

Hot  cross  buns,  hot  cross  buns, 
If  your  daughters  don't  like  'em, 
Give  'em  to  your  sons. 
One  a  penny,  two  a  penny, 
Hot  cross  buns, 

there  is  almost  no  rhythm  of  stress,  but  there  is  a 
rhythm  of  time;  for  despite  the  inequality  in  the 
number  of  syllables,  each  line  has  approximately  the 
same  duration,  even  the  last  line  with  its  three  mono- 
syllabic words  being  lengthened  out  into  equality  with 
the  others.  The  variety  in  the  rhythm  is  secured 
through  the  unequal  number  of  syllables  in  the  same 
stretch  of  duration,  the  more  rapid  movement  of  many 
syllables  being  set  off  over  against  the  slower  move- 
ment of  the  few.  Similarly,  Tennyson's  poem,  which 
should  be  scanned  as  I  shall  indicate,  has  a  rhythm 
which  is  chiefly  musical. 

Break,  |  break,  |  break, 

On  thy  cold,  |  grey  stones,  |  O  sea ! 

And  I  would  |  that  my  tongue  |  might  utter 

The  thoughts  |  that  arise  |  in  me. 

The  stresses  are  nearly  even  throughout;  the  meter 
cannot  be  accurately  described  as  iambic,  trochaic,  or 


l\ 


The  Esthetics  of  Poetry  209 


anapestic;  yet  there  is  a  rhythm  in  the  approximate 
temporal  equality  of  the  thought-moments.  These 
verses  are,  however,  rather  songs  than  poems.  The 
failure  to  distinguish  between  verses  which  are  songs 
and  those  which  are  poems  accounts,  I  believe,  for  the 
extremes  to  which  the  musical  theory  of  verse  has  been 
carried. 

Still  another  element  of  poetry  which  allies  it  to  ! 
music  is  the  .repetition  of  the  thought-content.  Why 
repetition  should  be  musical  we  already  know  :  music 
is  an  art  which  seeks  to  draw  out  and  elaborate  pure 
emotion;  repetition  serves  this  end  by  constantly 
bringing  the  mind  back  to  dwell  upon  the  same  theme. 
Moreover,  repetition  involves  retardation;  for  a 
movement  cannot  progress  rapidly  if  it  has  to  return 
upon  itself;  and  this  slowness  gives  time  for  the  full 
value  of  a  feeling  to  be  worked  out.  In  all  the  more 
emotional  and  lyric  poetry  we  find,  therefore,  recur- 
rence of  theme  :  the  thought  is  repeated  again  and 
again  ;  in  new  forms,  perhaps,  yet  still  the  same  in 
essence,  successive  lines  or  stanzas  taking  up  the  same 
burden  ;  sometimes  there  is  exact  recurrence  of  thought, 
as  in  the  refrain.  And  this  repetition  in  the  thought  is 
embodied  in  a  repetition  of  the  elements  of  the  sound- 
pattern  ;  the  wave  type  is  repeated  from  verse  to  verse 
or  recurs  again  and  again  ;  there  is  recurrence  of  melodic 
form  or  parallelism  between  contrasted  melodies  in 
different  stanzas;  there  is  tonality  of  vowel  and  con- 
sonant sounds  in  rime  and  assonance  and  alliteration  ; 
there  may  be  an  approach  to  identity  in  the  time- 
duration  of  the  various  units.  Parallelism  or  repeti- 
tion is  the  fundamental  scheme  of  such  poetry.  But 


210  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

between  repetition  with  its  retardation  of  movement 
and  progress  towards  a  goal  there  is  a  necessary  antag- 
onism ;  hence  in  the  more  dramatic  and  narrative  forms 
of  poetry,  although  recurrence  is  never  entirely  absent, 
there  is  less  of  it,  and  the  movement  approximates  to 
that  of  prose.  Emotion  demands  repetition,  but  action 
demands  progression. 

After  our  analysis  of  the  rhythm  of  poetry,  we  are 
in  a  position  to  inquire  into  what  can  be  expressed 
through  it,  and  how  psychologically  this  expression 
can  be  explained. 

The  expressiveness  of  rhythm  is  like  that  of  music, 
vague  and  objectless,  for  which  reason  rhythm  is 
properly  called  the  music  of  verse.  Almost  every- 
thing in  a  general  way  which  we  have  said  about  the 
expressiveness  of  music  applies  to  poetic  rhythm. 
This  expressiveness  cannot  be  translated  into  words 
with  any  exactness;  the  most  that  can  be  done  is  to 
find  a  set  of  words  into  which  it  will  roughly  fit,  leaving 
much  vacant  space  of  meaning.  That  the  emotional 
values  of  rhythms  have  character  is,  however,  proved 
by  the  fact  that  some  rhythms  are  better  vehicles 
for  certain  kinds  of  thought  than  others  are.  Yet 
it  often  happens  that,  just  as,  in  song  or  opera,  the 
same  melody  is  used  to  express  joy  or  grief,  love  or 
religious  emotion,  so  approximately  the  same  rhythmic 
form  is  employed  in  the  expression  of  apparently 
antagonistic  emotions.  Nevertheless,  this  fact  is  not 
fatal  to  expression;  for,  in  the  first  place,  there  is 
much  variety  of  rhythm  within  a  given  metrical  form, 
so  that  what  superficially  may  seem  to  be  the  same 
rhythm  is  really  a  different  one;  and,  in  the  second 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Poetry 

place,  as  we  have  already  observed  in  the  case  of 
music,  there  is  much  —  in  form  and  energy  of  move- 
ment —  which  contrasting  emotions  have  in  common, 
and  this  may  be  expressed  in  the  rhythmic  type. 
Think  of  the  wide  sweep  of  emotions  which  have  been 
expressed  in  the  sonnet  form!  Yet  consider  what 
varieties  of  rhythm  and  speech  melodies  are  possible 
within  this  form,  and  how,  nevertheless,  there  is  an 
identity  of  character  in  all  sonnets  —  how  they  are 
all  thoughtful,  all  restrained,  yet  unfaltering  in  their 
movement ! 

Without  going  into  details,  which  would  lie  beyond 
the  scope  of  general  aesthetics,  it  is  possible  to  state  the 
following  broad  facts  (compare  the  similar  facts  relat- 
ing to  melody)  with  reference  to  poetic  rhythms :  a 
rising  rhythm  expresses  striving  or  restlessness ;  a 
falling  rhythm,  quiet,  steadfastness.  There  is,  how- 
ever, no  absolute  contrast  between  the  two  kinds, 
because  a  falling  rhythm  is  still  a  rhythm,  and  that 
means  a  movement  which  necessarily  contains  some- 
thing of  instability  and  unrest.  The  contrast  is  sharp- 
est in  the  anapestic  and  dactylic,  less  sharp  in  the 
trochaic  and  iambic.  Many  a  trochaic  rhythm  be- 
comes in  effect  iambic  when  the  division  of  the  thought 
moments  and  the  distribution  of  the  pauses  make  the  v 
rhythm  rise  after  the  first  few  words ;  and  conversely, 
many  an  iambic  rhythm  becomes  trochaic  through  a 
similar  shift  in  the  attention.  Within  a  single  line, 
therefore,  there  may  be  both  rising  and  falling  pulsa-  ^ 
tions.  Much  of  the  rare  beauty  of  poetry  comes  from 
such  subtle  combinations  of  rhythmic  qualities. 

Through  time  and   tempo  also,   poetic  rhythm  is    } 


The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

expressive,  much  after  the  manner  of  music ;  by  these 
means  too,  in  addition  to  the  mode  of  stress-undula- 
tion, it  imitates  the  temporal  and  dynamic  course  of 
action  and  emotion,  and  so  tends  to  arouse  congruous 
types  of  feeling  in  the  mind ;  it  is  swift  or  slow,  gliding 
or  abrupt,  retarded  or  accelerated.  Compare  the  slow 
and  retarded  rhythm  of  "When  I  have  fears  that  I 
may  cease  to  be,"  so  well  adapted  to  express  the 
gravity  of  the  thought,  with  the  rapid  and  accelerated 
movement  of  "Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit!"  so  full  of 
a  quick  joyousness.  Or  compare  the  light  legato  move- 
ment of  "Bird  of  the  wilderness,  blithesome  and  cum- 
berless,"  with  the  heavy  staccato  movement  of  "Waste 
endless  and  boundless  and  flowerless." 

Yet,  for  all  its  expressiveness,  the  music  of  verse 
can  never  stand  alone.  It  is  too  bare  and  tenuous  by 
itself  to  win  and  keep  the  attention  or  to  evoke  much 
feeling.  It  does  not  possess  the  purity  of  color,  the 
loudness,  force,  or  volume  of  sound  that  belong  to 
music  and  make  music,  almost  alone  of  the  arts,  capa- 
ble of  existing  as  mere  form.  The  rhythm  of  poetry, 
derived  very  largely  from  a  rhythm  of  thought,  has 
need  of  thought  for  significance.  The  thought  and 
the  music  are  one.  For  this  reason  poetry  is  better, 
I  think,  when  read  to  oneself  than  when  read  aloud; 
for  then  the  sound  and  the  sense  are  more  intimate; 
the  attention  is  not  drawn  off  to  the  former  away  from 
the  latter.  Moreover,  try  as  he  will,  the  poet  can  never 
make  his  word-sounds  fully  harmonious ;  some  rough- 
ness and  dissonance  will  remain ;  but  in  silent  reading 
these  qualities  disappear.  However,  although  by  it- 
self of  small  significance,  the  musical  element  in  verse 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Poetry 

makes  all  the  difference  between  poetry  and  prose. 
Through  its  own  vague  expressiveness  it  fortifies  the 
emotional  meaning  of  the  poetic  language,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  sublimates  it  by  scattering  it  in  the  medium. 
And  finally  it  imparts  an  intimacy,  a  personal  flavor, 
which  also  allies  poetry  with  music ;  for  the  substance 
of  rhythm  is  the  movement  of  our  own  inner  processes ; 
the  rhythm  of  thoughts  and  sounds  is  a  rhythm  in  our 
own  listening  and  attending,  our  own  thinking  and 
feeling;  the  emotional  values  spring  from  us  as  well 
as  from  the  subject-matter.  Hence  even  narrative 
and  dramatic  poetry  have  a  lyrical  tone ;  we  ourselves 
are  implicated  in  the  actions  and  events  portrayed. 

The  demands  made  by  the  form  of  poetry  upon  its 
substance  are  similar  to  those  made  by  music  upon 
the  words  in  a  song,  only  less  stringent.  The  content 
must  be  emotional  and  significant;  it  cannot  be  trite 
and  cold.  The  meaning  of  words  would  permit  the 
poet  to  bring  before  the  mind  all  possible  objects, 
events,  and  ideas,  but  the  music  of  words  would  be 
incongruous  with  most  of  them.  Events  narrated 
must  be  stirring,  thoughts  uttered  must  be  emotionally 
toned,  things  described  must  be  related  to  human  life 
and  action.  Poetry  may  desert  the  royal  themes  of 
long  ago  —  arma  virumque  cano,  ^viv  aeiSe  0ea  —  and 
relate  the  lowly  life  of  common  folk,  even  the 
sordid  life  of  the  poor  and  miserable,  but  when  doing 
so  throws  over  it  the  musical  glamour  of  verse  and 
arouses  the  heat  of  sympathy  and  passion.  Although, 
since  it  makes  use  of  words,  poetry  should  always 
have  a  meaning,  it  need  riot  have  the  definiteness  of 
meaning  of  logical  thought ;  it  may  suggest  rather  than 


214  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

explicate;  its  music  is  compatible  with  vagueness. 
But  vagueness  is  not  obscurity ;  the  poet  should  always 
make  us  feel  that  we  understand  him;  he  should  not 
seek  to  mystify  us,  or  keep  us  guessing  at  his  meaning. 
Yet,  since  the  poet  operates  with  words  and  not  with 
mere  sounds,  great  subtlety  and  precision  of  thought 
are  possible  in  poetry,  although  not  argument  and 
dialectic.  Poetry  may  express  the  results  of  reflec- 
tion, so  far  as  they  are  of  high  emotional  value,  but 
cannot  well  reproduce  its  processes ;  the  steps  of 
analysis  and  inference  are  too  cold  and  hard  for  the 
muse  to  climb. 

On  the  other  hand,  poetry  does  not  permit  of  the 
development  and  iteration  of  pure  feeling  which  we 
find  in  music;  for  poetic  rhythms  and  melodies  lack 
the  variety  and  fluency  of  the  musical.  Yet  poetry  is 
capable,  where  music  is  not,  of  expressing  brief,  quick 
outbursts  of  feeling;  for  a  few  words,  by  referring  to 
the  causes  and  conditions  of  feeling,  may  adequately 
express  what  music  needs  time  and  many  tones  to 
convey.  Poetry  wins  beauty  by  concentration,  whereas 
, music  gains  by  expansion.  There  is  also  a  similar  rela- 
tion between  prose  and  poetry  in  this  respect;  the 
severity  of  the  form  imposes  upon  poetry  a  simplicity 
which  contrasts  with  the  breadth  and  complexity  of 
prose.  As  Schopenhauer  remarked,  every  good  poem 
"  is  short ;  long  poems  always  contain  stretches  either 
of  unmusical  verse  or  unpoetic  music.  Yet,  hi  com- 
parison with  prose,  the  tempo  of  music  is  slow;  we 
have  to  linger  in  the  medium  in  order  that  its  rhythmic 
and  tonal  beauties  may  impress  us,  and  this  slowness 
of  movement  is  imparted  to  the  thought;  even  narra- 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Poetry  215 

tive  and  dramatic  poetry  suffer  retardation ;  for  which 
reason  the  poetic  form  must  be  abandoned  if  great 
rapidity  of  expression  is  sought. 

From  our  study  of  the  materials  and  forms  of  its 
expression,  it  becomes  clear  how  the  subject-matter 
of  poetry  is  the  inner  life  of  mood  and  striving  and  J 
passionate  human  action.  Emotions  may  be  poured 
forth  in  words,  and,  by  means  of  words,  actions  may 
be  described.  But  neither  passion  nor  action  appear 
in  poetry  as  they  are  lived  and  enacted ;  for  the  poet, 
working  in  a  medium  of  words,  has  to  translate  them 
into  thoughts.  Words  cannot  embody  the  real  ex- 
periences which  they  express ;  experience  is  fleeting 
and  falls  away  from  the  words,  which  retain  only  an 
echo  of  what  they  mean.  Only  what  can  be  relived  in 
memory  can  be  contained  in  a  word,  and  not  even 
all  of  that ;  for  a  word  is  not  a  mere  embodiment  of  an 
experience,  but  a  communication  also,  and  only  its 
public  and  universal  content  can  pass  from  a  speaker 
to  a  hearer.  Now,  this  socialized  content  of  a  word  is 
a  thought.  Even  passion  the  most  spontaneous  and 
lyrical  has  to  be  translated  into  thought, — not  the  ab- 
stract thought  of  scientific  expression,  but  the  emo- 
tionally toned  thought  of  art,  thought  which,  while 
condensing  experience,  still  keeps  its  values.  Emo- 
tional thought  is  the  substance  of  poetry.  However, 
albeit  an  image  of  the  inner  life,  poetry  does  not 
volatilize  it  into  pure  feeling  as  music  does,  but  dis- 
tinguishes its  objects  and  assigns  its  causes.  Poetry 
is  concrete  and  articulate  where  music  is  abstract  and 
blind.  Since  words,  through  their  meanings  and  asso- 
ciated images,  can  express  things  as  well  as  man's 


216  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

reactions  to  them,  poetry  can  also  reflect  the  natural 
environment  of  life,  its  habitat  and  seat.  And  yet, 
because  the  poet  has  to  translate  things  into  ideas, 
nature  never  appears  in  poetry  as  it  is  in  itself,  but  as 
it  is  implicated  in  mind.  For  the  poet,  sea  and  sky, 
the  woods  and  plains  and  rivers,  birds  and  flowers, 
are  the  symbols  of  human  destiny  or  the  loci  of  human 
action.  Emotion  overflows  into  nature,  but  this  in- 
volves the  taking  up  of  nature  into  man.  Not  nature, 
but  man's  thoughtful  life  is  the  poet's  theme. 

If  the  foregoing  statement  is  correct,  emotional 
thought  rather  than  imagery  is  the  substance  of 
poetry.  For  poetry,  as  music  with  a  meaning,  can  be 
quite  free  of  definite  images.  "  In  la  sua  volantade  e 
nostra  pace  "  *  (In  his  will  is  our  peace)  is  beautiful  poe- 
try, yet  there  is  no  image.  The  thought  formulates  a 
mood  and  finds  a  sensuous  embodiment  in  musical 
language,  and  that  suffices  for  beauty.  And  yet  in 
poetry,  as  has  been  observed,  thought  tends  to  descend 
into  imagery.  By  being  connected  with  a  sensuous 
material,  a  thought  acquires  a  firmer  support  for  feel- 
ing than  it  could  possess  of  itself  as  a  mere  con- 
cept. Especially  effective  is  the  descent  to  the 
lower  senses ;  for  they  are  closest  to  the  roots  of 
emotion.  Let  me  recall  again  the  Shakespearean  lyric 
which  I  have  quoted  before  in  a  similar  connection, 
omitting  the  last  lines  of  each  stanza :  — 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude ; 

1  Dante :  Paradiso,  3,  85. 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Poetry  217 

Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 
Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot ; 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remembered  not. 

Here  are  images  of  cold  —  winter,  freeze ;  of  touch  — 
blow,  breath ;  of  pain  —  tooth,  bite,  sting,  sharp ;  of 
taste  —  bitter.  How  vividly  they  convey  the  ache  of 
desolation!  Only  in  words  which  are  imaginative  as 
well  as  musical  are  the  full  resources  of  verbal  expres- 
sion employed. 

All  the  various  forms  of  metaphorical  language  have 
the  same  purpose  :  by  substituting  for  a  more  abstract, 
conceptual  mode  of  expression  a  more  sensuous  and 
imaginative  one,  to  vivify  the  emotional  quality  of  the 
situation.  When  Keats  sings, 

...  on  the  shore 

Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  and  think 

Till  Love  and  Fame  to  nothingness  do  sink, 

he  has  in  mind  to  convey  to  us  that  renunciation  of 
merely  personal  ambitions  which  comes  to  us  when 
we  "survey  all  time  and  all  existence."  And  how 
does  he  do  it?  By  evoking  the  image  of  the  wide 
stretch  of  the  shore  of  the  sea,  which,  making  us  feel 
our  nothingness  as  we  stand  and  look  out  upon  it,  has 
the  same  effect,  only  more  poignant.  Of  the  world 


218  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

we  have  no  image  —  not  so,  of  the  shore  of  the  world ; 
and  toward  what  we  cannot  imagine  we  cannot  easily 
feel.  Oftentimes  the  metaphor  is  latent,  a  mere 
adjective  undeveloped  in  its  implications,  as  in  "bitter" 
sky ;  yet  the  purpose  is  the  same.  Incidentally  the 
poet  unifies  our  world  for  us  through  his  metaphors ; 
not  as  the  scientist  does  by  pointing  out  causal  and 
class  relations,  but  by  exhibiting  the  emotional  affini- 
ties of  things.  He  increases  the  value  of  single  things 
by  giving  them  the  values  of  other  things.  Every 
metaphor  should  serve  this  purpose  of  emotional  ex- 
pression and  unification,  should  be  part  of  an  emotional 
thought ;  otherwise  it  is  a  mere  tour  de  force  of  clever- 
ness, unrelated  to  the  poetic  interest  and  intrinsically 
absurd,  —  the  world  has  no  shore  and  the  wind  is  not 
bitter ;  feeling  alone  can  justify  such  comparisons. 
Moreover,  too  many  metaphors,  or  metaphors  too 
elaborately  developed,  by  scattering  the  attention,  or 
by  drawing  it  away  from  the  meaning  of  which  the 
image  should  be  a  part,  have  the  effect  of  no  image  at 
all.  The  poetry  of  Francis  Thompson,  for  example, 
loses  rather  than  gains  vitality  through  its  imaginative 
exuberance.  We  object  to  decadent  poets,  not  be- 
cause they  are  sensuous,  but  because  they  lack  feeling ; 
with  them  sensation,  instead  of  supporting  emotion, 
supplants  it.  Such  poets  seek  to  atone  for  their 
want  of  vigorous  feeling  by  stimulating  our  eyes  and 
ears. 

If,  as  I  believe,  emotional  thought  rather  than 
imagery  is  the  essence  of  poetry,  then  the  modern 
school  of  imagists  and  their  French  forbears  among 
the  "  Parnassiens "  are  mistaken.  Their  effort  comes 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Poetry 

in  the  end  to  a  revival  of  the  old  thesis  ut  pictura 
poesis,  the  attempt  to  make  poetry  a  vision  of  nature 
rather  than  an  expression  of  the  inner  life.  They 
would  lead  poetry  away  from  the  subjectivity  of  emo- 
tion into  the  outer  object  world.  Now,  it  is  indeed 
possible  for  the  poet  to  represent  nature  through  the 
images  which  words  evoke  in  the  mind,  and  these 
images  may  have  significance  for  feeling.  Their  very 
evocation  in  musical  language  is  bound  to  lend  them 
some  warmth  of  mood.  Yet  —  as  Lessing  showed  in 
his  Laocoon,  despite  all  the  crabbed  narrowness  of  his 
treatment  —  it  is  hopeless  for  the  poet  to  enter  into 
rivalry  with  the  painter  or  sculptor.  The  colors  and 
forms  of  things  which  the  poet  paints  for  the  eye  of 
the  mind  are  mere  shadows  in  comparison  with  those 
which  we  really  see.1  We  admire  the  marvelous 
workmanship  of  such  verses  as  the  following  of  Gautier, 
but  they  leave  us  cold ;  even  the  melody  of  the  lan- 
guage is  incapable  of  making  them  warm.  How  poor 
they  are  beside  a  painting ! 

Les  femmes  passent  sous  les  arbres 
En  martre,  hermine  et  menu-vair 
Et  les  deesses,  frileux  marbres, 
Ont  pris  aussi  1'abit  d'hiver. 

La  Venus  Anadyomene 
Est  en  pelisse  a  capuchon  : 
Flore,  que  la  brise  malmene, 
Plonge  ses  mains  dans  son  manchon. 

1  The  best  the  poet-painter  can  do  is  to  express  his  memories  of  the  outer 
world;  but  apart  from  some  vivid  emotion,  memories  are  unsatisfactory 
in  comparison  with  realities. 


220  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

Et  pour  la  saison,  les  bergeres 
De  Coysevox  et  de  Coustou, 
Trouvant  leures  echarpes  legeres 
Ont  des  boas  autour  du  cou. 

Of  course,  poetic  pictures  can  be  painted  —  Gautier 
has  painted  them  —  but  the  standard  for  each  art  is 
set  by  what  it  can  do  uniquely  well.  If  the  poet 
works  in  the  domain  of  the  painter,  we  tend  to  judge 
him  by  the  alien  standards  of  another  art,  where  he 
is  bound  to  fall  short;  while  if  he  works  within  his 
own  province,  we  judge  him  by  his  own  autonomous 
laws,  under  which  he  can  achieve  perfection. 

Oftentimes,  confessing  the  inability  of  the  image  to 
stand  alone,  these  poets  make  it  into  a  symbol  of  some 
mood  or  emotional  thought.  Yet  the  image  remains 
the  chief  object  of  the  poet's  care;  it  was  clearly  the 
first  thing  in  his  mind ;  the  interpretation  is  an  after- 
thought. The  poem  therefore  falls  into  two  parts  — 
a  picture  and  an  interpretation,  with  little  organic 
relation  between  them.  Another  one  of  Gautier 's 
poems  will  serve  to  illustrate  what  I  mean.1 

LES  COLOMBES 

Sur  le  coteau,  la-bas  ou  sont  les  tombes, 
Un  beau  palmier,  comme  un  panache  vert, 
Dresse  sa  tete,  ou  le  soir  les  colombes 
Viennent  nicher  et  se  mettre  a  couvert, 

Mais  le  matin  elles  quittent  les  branches ; 
Comme  un  collier  qui  s'egrene,  on  les  voit 

1  There  are  some  good  examples  of  this  in  Baudelaire's  Fleurea  du  Mol. 
See  for  one,  L'Albatros. 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Poetry  221 

S'eparpiller  dans  Pair  bleu,  toutes  blanches, 
Et  se  poser  plus  loin  sur  quelque  toit. 

Mon  ame  est  1'arbre  ou  tous  les  soirs,  comme  elles, 
De  blancs  essaims  de  folles  visions 
Tombent  des  cieux,  en  palpitant  des  ailes, 
Pour  s'envoler  des  les  premiers  rayons. 

Finally,  the  effort  to  detach  poetry  from  the  inner 
world  and  make  it  an  expression  of  outer  things,  is 
incompatible  with  its  musical  character.  For  music 
is  essentially  subjective,  an  expression  of  pure  mood 
unaffixed  to  objects.  As  rhythmical,  poetry  shares 
the  inwardness  of  music ;  wherefore,  unless  its  rhythm 
is  to  be  a  mere  f  unctionless,  ornamental  dress,  whatever 
it  expresses  should  have  its  source  in  the  inner  man. 
Of  course,  through  their  meanings,  word-sounds  indi- 
cate the  causes  and  objects  of  emotion  —  and  this 
differentiates  music  from  poetry  —  but  in  poetry  the 
emotion  is  still  the  primary  thing,  springing  from  inner 
strivings,  and  not  from  objects,  as  in  painting  and 
sculpture.  It  is  therefore  no  accident  that  the  con- 
temporary imagists  tend  to  abandon  the  forms  of 
verse ;  their  poetry  has  little  or  no  regular  rhythm ; 
it  approximates  to  prose.  For  in  proportion  as  poetry 
becomes  free,  it  ceases  to  be  tied  to  musical  expressive- 
ness, and  may  become  objective,  without  prejudice  to 
its  own  nature.  Prose  poetry,  and  prose  too,  of  course, 
may  be  highly  emotional  and  subjective,  for  words 
can  express  emotions  directly  without  any  rhythmical 
ordering;  yet  prose  need  not  be  subjective,  as  poetry 
must  be.  There  is  no  absolute  difference  between 
prose  and  poetry;  for  even  prose  has  its  rhythm  and 


222  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

its  euphony,  its  expressiveness  of  the  medium;  yet 
in  prose  the  rhythm  is  irregular  and  accidental  and  the 
expressiveness  of  the  medium  incomplete,  while  in 
poetry  the  rhythm  is  regular  and  pervasive  and  ideally 
every  sound-element,  as  mere  sound,  is  musical.  But 
this  more  complete  musical  expressiveness  of  the 
medium  restricts  poetry  to  a  more  inward  world. 

By  abandoning  the  strict  forms  and  restraints  of 
regular  rhythms,  the  writers  of  free  verse  think  to  gain 
spontaneity  and  something  of  the  amplitude  of  prose; 
yet  it  is  doubtful  whether  they  gain  as  much  as  they 
lose.  For,  in  the  hands  of  the  skillful  poet,  the  form, 
having  become  second  nature,  ceases  to  be  a  bond; 
and  the  expression,  by  taking  on  regularity  of  rhythm, 
acquires  a  concentration  and  mnemonic  value  which 
free  verse  cannot  achieve.  In  comparison  with  free 
verbal  expressions,  verse  forms  are,  indeed,  artifices ; 
yet  they  are  not  artificial,  in  the  bad  sense  of  function- 
less,  for  they  possess  irreplaceable  values.  Neverthe- 
less, it  would  be  strange  if  they  were  not  from  time  to 
time  abandoned,  the  poet  reverting  to  the  freedom  of 
ordinary  speech;  just  as  now  and  then,  in  civilized 
communities,  we  find  vigorous  and  sincere  men  who 
tire  of  culture  and  take  to  the  woods. 

The  triplicity  of  the  word,  as  sound,  image,  meaning, 
provides  a  certain  justification  for  the  variety  of  tastes 
in  poetry,  and  accounts  for  the  difficulty  of  setting 
up  a  single  universal  standard.  There  is  an  unstable 
equilibrium  between  the  three  aspects  of  words ;  hence 
poetry  tends  to  become  predominantly  music  or  paint- 
ing or  thought,  yet  can  never  succeed  in  becoming 
completely  any  one  of  these.  And  it  is  inevitable  that 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Poetry  223 

some  people  should  be  more  sensitive  to  one  rather 
than  to  another  of  the  aspects  of  words,  preferring  there- 
fore the  more  musical,  or  the  more  thoughtful,  or  the 
more  pictorial  poetry.  And  so  we  have  poems  that 
would  be  music,  and  others  that  would  be  pictures, 
and  still  others  that  would  be  epigrams.  And  each 
kind  has  a  certain  right  and  beauty;  but  no  kind  has 
the  unique  beauty  that  is  poetical.  We  do  not  ask 
their  makers  not  to  produce  them,  nor  do  we  condemn 
the  pleasures  which  they  afford  us,  but  we  cannot 
commend  them  without  reservation.  For  the  best 
poems  achieve  a  synthesis  of  the  elements  of  words,  — 
they  are  at  once  musical  and  imaginative  and  thought- 
ful. Yet  with  difficulty;  for  there  is  an  antagonism 
among  the  elements :  when  the  music  is  insistent,  the 
thought  is  obscured;  when  the  images  are  elaborate, 
their  meaning  is  lost  to  sight;  when  the  thought  is 
subtle  or  profound,  it  rejects  the  image  and  is  careless 
of  sound.  Swinburne's  poetry  is  full  of  philosophy, 
but  is  so  sensuous  and  musical  that  we  miss  its 
thoughts;  Browning  is  too  subtle  a  thinker  to  be  a 
musician.  The  complexity  of  poetry  is  the  source  of 
its  strength,  lending  it  something  of  the  inwardness  of 
music  and  the  plasticity  of  the  pictorial  arts;  but  is 
also  the  source  of  its  weakness.  Seldom  does  it  achieve 
the  technical  purity  and  perfection  of  music  and  paint- 
ing and  sculpture.  Music  has  a  clear  and  simple 
medium,  painting  and  sculpture  work  with  colors  and 
forms  which  almost  are  what  they  represent;  but 
word-sounds  are  not  what  they  mean,  and  what  they 
mean  is  not  precisely  the  same  as  the  images  which 
they  evoke ;  too  often  the  correspondence  is  factitious 


The  Principles  of  Esthetics 

and  artificial,  rarely  is  there  fusion.  Yet,  as  I  have 
tried  to  show,  when  meaning  is  made  central,  sound 
may  fit  it  closely,  and  when  the  meaning  is  emotional, 
the  music  of  sound  may  echo  its  cry,  and  the  image, 
instead  of  rebelling,  may  serve.  Emotional  thought 
is  the  essence  of  poetry  and  the  link  between  its  music 
and  its  pictures. 

I  Of  the  different  modes  of  poetry,  the  lyric  has  rightly 
I  seemed  the  most  typical.  Being  an  expression  of  a 
single,  simple  mood,  its  subject-matter  is  most  closely 
akin  to  the  musical  expressiveness  of  the  rhythm  and 
euphony  of  the  medium.  When,  moreover,  the  mood 
is  a  common  one,  there  occurs  that  identification  of 
self  with  the  passion  expressed  characteristic  of  music : 
the  utterance  becomes  ours  as  well  as  the  poet's ;  the 
"I"  of  the  poem  is  the  "I"  who  read.  This  is  espe- 
cially true  when  the  setting  and  causes  of  the  emotion 
are  without  name  or  place  or  date;  the  poem  then 
shares  the  timelessness  and  universality  of  music.  In 
such  a  lyric  there  is  complete  symmetry  in  the  rela- 
tion between  speaker  and  hearer ;  the  poet  unburdens 
his  heart  to  us,  and  we  in  receiving  his  message  tell  it 
back  to  him.  When,  on  the  other  hand,  in  explaining 
his  feelings,  the  poet  relates  them  to  events  and  per- 
sons which  have  been  no  part  of  our  experience,  this 
symmetry  is  lost;  we  no  longer  utter  the  poem  our- 
selves, but  merely  hear  the  poet  speak.  Such  poetry 
is  already  approaching  the  dramatic ;  for  although  still 
the  expression  of  the  poet's  life,  it  is  no  longer  an  ex- 
pression of  the  reader's  life,  and  the  poet  also,  as  he 
lives  past  his  experience,  must  come  at  length  to  view 
it  as  if  it  were  another's. 


The  ^Esthetics  of  Poetry 

And  yet,  paradoxical  as  it  may  sound,  dramatic 
poetry  is  dramatic  in  proportion  as  it  is  lyrical  —  that 
is,  according  to  the  degree  to  which  the  poet  has  made 
the  life  of  others  his  own.  Dramatic  poetry,  when 
truly  poetic,  is  a  series  of  lyrics  of  the  less  universal 
type.  In  another  respect,  however,  dramatic  poetry 
is  essentially  different  from  the  lyrical.  For,  in 
dramatic  poetry,  each  utterance  is  a  response  or  in- 
vitation to  another  utterance,  while  in  lyric  poetry, 
utterance  is  complete  in  itself.  The  one  is  social,  the 
other  personal :  in  the  appreciation  of  the  lyric,  the 
reader  is  just  himself ;  in  the  appreciation  of  dramatic 
poetry,  he  is  a  whole  society,  becoming  now  this  man 
and  now  that.  The  unity  of  the  one  is  the  unity  of  A 
a  single  mood  ;  the  unity  of  the  other  is  the  interaction 
of  the  dramatis  personse  as  it  works  itself  out  in  the 
mind  of  the  reader.  And  this  difference,  as  we  have 
seen,  is  imaged  in  the  form.  Being  self-contained,  the 
lyric  is  a  harmonious  whole,  in  which  the  parts  may 
be  repeated  for  emphasis ;  looking  backward  and  for- 
ward, the  dramatic  utterance  is  a  progressive  and  in- 
complete whole,  which  cannot  stay  for  iteration.  Lyric 
poetry  is  like  a  communication  from  friend  to  friend, 
intimate  and  meditative;  dramatic  poetry  is  like  a 
passionate  conversation  which  one  overhears. 

The  life  portrayed  in  the  epic  poem  is  even  less  direct 
than  that  which  is  portrayed  in  the  drama;  for  there 
the  poet  does  not  impersonate  the  agents  in  the  story, 
but  describes  them.  His  description  is  the  first  thing 
which  we  get;  we  get  the  action  only  indirectly 
through  that.  Hence  the  story-teller  himself  —  his 
manner  of  telling,  his  reactions  to  what  he  tells,  his 


The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

sympathy,  humor,  and  intelligence  —  are  part  of  what 
he  expresses.  He  himself  is  partly  theme.  No  matter 
how  hard  he  may  try  to  do  so,  he  cannot  exclude 
himself;  through  his  choice  of  words,  through  his 
illustrations,  through  his  style,  "which  is  the  man,"  he 
will  reveal  himself.1  We  inevitably  apprehend,  not 
merely  his  thoughts,  but  him  thinking.  In  the  epic 
form  of  poetry,  the  poet  has,  moreover,  an  opportunity 
for  a  more  direct  mode  of  self-revelation,  an  oppor- 
tunity for  comment  and  judgment  upon  the  life  which 
he  portrays.  And  this  we  should  accept,  not  in  a 
spirit  of  controversy  or  criticism,  but  with  sympathy, 
as  a  part  of  the  total  aesthetic  expression,  striving  to 
get,  not  only  the  poet's  story,  but  his  point  of  view 
regarding  it  as  well. 

This  duality  in  the  life  of  the  epic  involves  a  two- 
foldness  in  its  time.  In  both  lyric  and  dramatic 
poetry,  life  moves  before  us  as  a  single  stream  actual 
in  the  present ;  but  in  the  epic  there  is  the  time  of  the 
story-teller,  which  is  present,  and  the  time  of  the 
events  that  he  relates,  which  is  past.  And  being  past, 
these  events  appear  as  it  were  at  a  distance,  at  arms' 
length  and  remote ;  they  lack  the  vivid  reality  of  things 
present.  Moreover,  since  the  past  is  finished,  unlike 
the  present  which  is  ever  moving  and  creating  itself 
anew,  the  epic,  in  comparison  with  the  drama,  comes 
to  us  with  its  parts  as  it  were  coexisting  and  complete, 
more  after  the  manner  of  space  than  of  time.  And 
just  as  a  spatial  thing  allows  us  to  survey  its  parts  by 
turn,  since  they  are  all  there  before  we  look;  so,  in 
reading  an  epic,  we  feel  that  we  can  proceed  at  our 

1  See  Lipps :  JUsthetik,  Bd.  1,  s.  495  et  seq. 


The  .Esthetics  of  Poetry 

leisure  and,  despite  the  causal  relation,  take  the  inci- 
dents in  any  order.  It  is  not  so  in  the  drama,  where 
events  move  rapidly  and  make  themselves  in  a  deter- 
mined sequence.  This  is  what  Goethe  meant  when  he 
said  that  substantiality  was  the  category  of  the  epic, 
causality  of  the  drama,  although,  of  course,  this  dis- 
tinction is  not  absolute. 

Finally,  the  fact  that  the  epic  poet  tells  rather  than 
impersonates  his  story,  enables  him  to  enlarge  its 
scope;  for  by  means  of  descriptions  he  can  introduce 
nature  as  one  of  the  persons  of  the  action.1  He  can 
show  the  molding  influence  of  nature  upon  man,  and 
how  man,  in  turn,  interacts  not  only  with  his  fellows, 
but  with  his  environment.  Fate,  in  the  sense  of  the 
non-human  determinants  of  man's  career,  can  show  its 
hand.  In  the  Odyssey,  for  example,  shipwreck  and 
the  interference  of  the  gods  are  factors  as  decisive  as 
Odysseus'  courage  and  cunning.  By  contrast,  in 
lyric  poetry,  nature  is  merely  a  reflection  of  moods; 
in  dramatic  poetry,  it  is  simply  the  passive,  causally 
ineffective  stage  for  a  social  experience  wholly  deter- 
mined by  human  agents.  This  distinction  is,  however, 
not  absolute.  In  Brand,  for  example,  through  the 
stage  directions  and  the  utterance  of  the  persons,  we 
are  indirectly  made  aware  of  the  control  exerted  by 
the  physical  background  of  the  action;  in  the  Greek 
drama  we  learn  this  from  the  Chorus  and  the  Prologue. 

1  Compare  Munsterberg:  The  Eternal  Values,  p.  233. 


CHAPTER  X 

PROSE  LITERATURE 

THERE  is  an  almost  universal  feeling,  expressed  in 
many  common  phrases,  that  prose  literature  is  not  one 
of  the  fine  arts.  The  reason  is  this  :  in  prose  literature 
there  is  a  conspicuous  absence  of  beauty  of  form  and 
sensation,  of  the  decorative,  in  comparison  with  the 
other  arts.  The  vague  expressiveness  and  charm  of  the 
medium,  the  musical  aspect,  is  largely  lacking.  Not 
wholly  lacking,  of  course,  as  a  multitude  of  beautiful 
passages  testify ;  yet,  in  general,  it  remains  true  that, 
in  prose,  the  medium  tends  to  be  transparent,  sacrific- 
ing itself  in  order  that  nothing  may  stand  between  what 
it  reveals  to  thought  and  the  imagination.  It  fulfills 
its  function  when  the  words  are  not  unpleasant  to  the 
ear,  and  when  their  flow,  adapting  itself  to  the  span 
and  pulsation  of  the  attention,  is  so  smooth  as  to  be- 
come unnoticeable,  like  the  movement  of  a  ship  on  a 
calm  sea,  —  when  it  is  a  means  to  an  end,  not  an  end 
in  itself. 

Prose  literature  is,  therefore,  incompletely  beautiful. 
The  full  meaning  and  value  of  the  aesthetic  are  not  to 
be  found  there,  but  rather  in  poetry,  painting,  sculp- 
ture, music,  architecture.  Yet  prose  literature  re- 
mains art,  if  incomplete  art  —  a  free,  personal  expres- 
sion of  life,  for  the  sake  of  contemplation.  As  free, 
it  differs  from  verbal  expression  in  the  service  of  practi- 

228 


Prose  Literature 

cal  ends,  and  as  personal,  it  cannot  be  classed  with 
science.  Throughout  the  long  course  of  its  history,  it 
has  tended  to  become  now  the  one,  now  the  other  of 
these  —  and  its  lack  of  the  decorative  element  has 
done  much  to  make  this  possible  —  but  its  power  to 
outlast  the  moral  and  political  issues  which  it  has  so 
often  sought  to  direct,  and  its  well-merited  rejection  by 
sociologists  and  psychologists  as  anything  more  than 
material  for  their  work,  are  sufficient  evidence  and  warn- 
ing of  where  it  properly  belongs,  —  among  the  arts. 
The  sacrifice  of  the  musical  element  in  the  medium  does 
not  have  to  be  justified  on  practical  grounds  as  making 
for  efficiency,  or  on  scientific  grounds  as  favoring  analy- 
sis, but  may  be  understood  from  the  artistic  standpoint. 
For  it  was  only  through  a  method  and  medium  that 
renounced  the  musical  manner  of  poetry,  with  its 
vaguely  expressive,  yet  rigid  forms,  that  the  fullness  and 
minuteness  of  life  could  be  represented. 

Even  the  more  fluently  musical  manner  of  poetical 
prose  is  unsuited  as  a  medium  for  the  expression  of  the 
kind  of  life  which  is  represented  in  normal  prose.  Poeti- 
cal prose  is  appropriate  for  the  expression  of  deeds  and 
sentiments  of  high  and  mystical  import  only,  but  not 
for  the  expression  of  the  more  commonplace  or  definitely 
and  complexly  articulated  phases  of  life.  For  the  latter, 
the  broader  and  freer  and  more  literal  method  of  strict 
prose  is  the  only  appropriate  medium  of  expression. 
The  unmusical  character  of  prose  style  is  not  determined 
by  weakness,  but  by  adaptation  to  function. 

And,  although  the  medium  of  prose  is  attenuated 
almost  to  the  vanishing  point,  where  it  may  seem  to  be 
lost,  it  may  nevertheless  borrow  from  its  content  a 


230  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

beauty  of  rhythm,  imagery,  and  form  that  will  seem 
to  be  its  very  own.  For  in  language,  as  we  observed  in 
our  discussion  of  poetry,  the  meaning  and  the  symbol 
are  so  closely  one,  that  it  becomes  impossible,  except 
by  analysis,  to  distinguish  them.  Prose  rhythm  is 
fundamentally  a  rhythmical  movement  of  ideas,  like 
poetic  rhythm,  only  without  regularization ;  yet,  since 
the  ideas  are  carried  by  the  words,  it  belongs  to  them 
also ;  images  blossom  from  ideas,  yet  they  too  seem  to 
belong  to  the  words  in  which  they  are  incarnated ;  and 
the  harmony  and  symmetry  which  thoughts  and  images 
may  contain  as  we  compose  them  synthetically  in  the 
memory,  make  an  architecture  of  words.  The  trans- 
parent medium  of  prose  shares  the  beauty  of  its  con- 
tent, just  as  a  perfect  glass  partakes  of  the  color  of  the 
light  which  it  transmits. 

The  psychologic  roots  of  prose  literature  are  the  im- 
pulses to  self -revelation  and  to  acquaintance  with  life. 
Every  thing  that  has  once  entered  into  our  lives,  no  matter 
how  intimate,  craves  to  come  out ;  the  instinct  of  gre- 
gariousness  extends,  as  we  have  noted,  to  the  whole 
of  the  mind.  The  completely  private  and  uncommuni- 
cated  makes  us  as  uncertain  and  afraid  of  ourselves  as 
physical  loneliness.  But  in  addition  to  the  dislike  for 
any  form  of  isolation,  even  when  purely  spiritual,  there 
is  another  factor  which  determines  self -revelation,  - 
the  desire  for  praise.  We  want  a  larger  audience  for 
our  exploits  than  the  people  immediately  involved  in 
them,  so  we  tell  them  to  any  listening  ear.  The  friend 
whispering  his  confession  illustrates  the  one  motive; 
the  hero  bragging  of  his  deeds  illustrates  the  other. 

The  desire  to  hear  another's  story  is  the  obverse  of 


Prose  Literature  231 

the  desire  to  tell  one  about  oneself,  just  as  the  impulse 
to  welcome  a  friend  is  the  complement  of  his  impulse 
to  seek  our  companionship;  we  receive  from  him  ex- 
actly what  he  takes  from  us,  —  an  enlargement  of  our 
social  world,  the  creation  of  another  social  bond.  If 
we  cannot  hear  his  story  from  his  own  lips,  we  want  to 
hear  it  from  some  third  person,  who  will  surely  be  glad 
to  relate  it,  since  he,  as  bearer  of  the  news,  will  bring 
to  himself  something  of  the  glory  of  the  hero.  There  is 
malice  enough  in  gossip,  but  most  of  it  is  the  purest 
kind  of  mental  and  emotional  satisfaction.  Our  in- 
terest in  it  is  of  exactly  the  same  kind  as  our  interest 
in  novels  and  romances.  The  stories  which  we  tell 
about  ourselves  and  our  friends  make  up  the  ephemeral, 
yet  real  prose  literature  of  daily  life. 

Most  stories  probably  had  their  origin  in  more  or  less 
literal  transcriptions  from  real  life.  History  is  the 
basis  of  literature.  However,  as  stories  are  passed 
from  one  person  to  another,  fiction  encroaches  upon 
fact.  Details  are  forgotten  and  have  to  be  filled  out 
from  the  imagination ;  then  a  sheer  delight  in  invention 
enters  in ;  it  is  so  interesting  to  see  if  you  can  make  a 
world  as  good  as  the  real  one,  or  even  outdo  it  in 
strangeness  and  wonder,  provided,  of  course,  you  can 
still  get  yourself  believed.  Even  in  the  relation  of  real 
events,  creation  inevitably  plays  a  part;  the  whole  of 
any  story  is  not  worth  telling ;  there  must  be  selection, 
emphasis  upon  the  most  striking  particulars,  and  syn- 
thesis. 

Besides  the  opportunity  which  it  gives  of  unhampered 
control  over  the  story,  fiction  has  still  other  advantages. 
The  interest  which  we  take  in  tales  of  real  life  is  bound 


232  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

up  with  personal  appeals.  This  is  most  racy  in  gossip, 
but  something  of  the  kind  lingers  in  all  narratives  of 
fact.  Literature  can  become  disinterested  and  univer- 
sal in  its  appeal  only  when,  keeping  the  semblance  of 
life,  it  becomes  a  work  of  pure  imagination.  It  is  then, 
as  Aristotle  said,  more  philosophical,  that  is,  more 
universal  and  typical,  than  history. 

Another  advantage  of  fiction  as  compared  with  his- 
tory is  its  completeness.  The  knowledge  which  we 
possess  of  the  lives  of  others  is  the  veriest  fragment. 
We  know,  of  course,  our  own  lives  best;  but  even  of 
these,  unless  we  are  at  the  end  of  our  years,  we  do  not 
know  the  outcome.  We  know  next  well  the  life  of  an 
intimate  -  -  wife,  child,  sweetheart,  friend  —  yet  not 
all  of  that ;  there  is  much  he  will  not  tell  us  and  much 
else  which  we  cannot  observe ;  for  even  he  dwells  with 
us  for  a  brief  time  only,  and  then  is  gone.  Of  other 
people,  we  can  know  still  less;  we  can  observe  some- 
thing, we  can  get  more  from  hearsay;  but  that  is  a 
chaos  of  impressions ;  the  larger  part  is  inference  and 
construction,  a  work  of  the  imagination,  which  may  or 
may  not  be  true.  Even  the  biography,  carefully  made 
from  all  available  data  in  the  way  of  personal  recollec- 
tions, letters,  and  diaries,  although  it  may  approach  to 
wholeness,  remains,  nevertheless,  very  largely  a  con- 
struction, a  work  of  literary  fiction.  The  autobiog- 
raphy comes  still  closer;  yet,  since  it  is  designed 
for  a  public  which  cannot  be  expected  to  view  it  hi  a 
solidly  detached  fashion,  it  suffers  from  the  reticence 
which  inevitably  intrudes  to  suppress.  In  fiction  alone, 
none  except  artistic  motives  need  intervene  to  bid 
silence. 


Prose  Literature  233 

However,  although  fiction  be  a  purely  ideal  world 
of  imagined  life,  it  is  essentially  the  same  as  the  real 
social  world.  For  that  world  is  also  imaginary.  We 
have  direct  experience  of  our  own  lives  alone ;  the  lives 
of  others  can  exist  for  us  only  in  our  thought  about 
them.  To  be  sure,  our  daily  contact  with  the  bodies 
of  our  friends  and  associates  gives  to  this  thought 
something  of  the  pungency  of  self-knowledge;  yet  in 
absence,  they  live  for  us,  as  the  characters  in  a  novel, 
only  in  our  thought.  And  the  majority  of  the  people, 
personally  unknown  to  us,  who  make  up  our  larger 
social  world  —  and  for  most  of  us  this  includes  the 
great  ones  who  are  such  potent  factors  in  determining 
it  —  are  real  to  us  in  the  same  way  that  Diana  or 
Esmond  are  real.  All  historical  figures  belong  to  this 
world  of  imagination.  Our  friends  too,  as  they  pass 
out  of  our  lives  or  die,  and  we  ourselves  eventually,  will 
sink  into  it. 

Our  interest  in  the  fictional  world  of  the  writer  is, 
moreover,  essentially  the  same  as  our  interest  in  the 
real  world.  Its  persons  arouse  in  us  the  same  emotions 
of  admiration,  love,  or  dislike.  They  satisfy  the  same 
need  for  social  stimulation,  the  same  curiosity  about 
life.  Just  as  we  have  certain  instincts  and  habits  of 
movement  that  make  us  restless  when  they  are  not 
satisfied,  and  afford  us  a  wild  joy  in  walking  and  run- 
ning when  we  are  released  from  confinement,  so  we 
have  certain  instincts  and  habits  of  feeling  towards 
persons  which  demand  objects  and  produce  joy  when 
companions  are  found.  An  unsatisfied  or  super- 
abundant sociability  lies  back  of  our  love  of  fiction. 
We  read  because  we  are  lonely  or  because  our  fellow 


234  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

men  have  become  trite  and  fail  to  stimulate  us  suffi- 
ciently. If  our  fellows  were  not  so  reticent,  if  they 
would  talk  to  us  and  tell  us  their  stories  with  the 
freedom  and  the  brightness  of  a  Stevenson,  or  if  their 
lives  were  so  fresh  and  vivid  that  we  never  found  them 
dull,  perhaps  we  should  not  read  at  all.  But,  as  it  is, 
we  can  satisfy  our  craving  for  knowledge  of  life  only 
by  extending  our  social  world  through  fiction.  Fiction 
may  teach  us,  edify  us,  make  us  better  men  —  it  may 
serve  all  these  purposes  incidentally,  but  its  prime  pur- 
pose as  art  is  to  provide  us  with  new  objects  for  social 
feeling  and  knowledge. 

The  interest  which  we  take  in  fictitious  action  is 
also  like  that  which  we  take  in  real  action.  The  same 
emotions  of  desire  for  the  attainment  of  a  goal,  sus- 
pense, hope,  fear,  excitement,  curiosity  and  its  satis- 
faction, joy,  despair,  are  aroused.  And  we  have  a 
need  to  experience  these  emotions  at  high  pitch  greater 
than  our  everyday  lives  can  satisfy.  Our  lives  are 
seldom  adventurous  all  over;  there  are  monotonous 
interludes  with  no  melody,  offering  us  little  that  is  new 
to  learn.  Our  love  for  war  and  sport  shows  that  we 
were  not  built  organically  for  humdrum.  Now  litera- 
ture helps  to  make  up  for  this  deficiency  in  real  life  by 
providing  us  with  adventures  in  which  we  can  partici- 
pate imaginatively,  and  from  which  we  can  derive  new 
knowledge.  If  real  life  did  supply  us  with  all  the  in- 
tense living  that  we  demand,  we  might  not  care  to  read, 
although  the  love  of  adventure  grows  by  feeding,  and 
many  an  active  man  revels  in  tales  which  simulate  his 
own  exploits. 

It  follows  that  the  novelist  should  imitate  life,  yet 


Prose  Literature  235 

at  the  same  time  raise  its  pitch.  The  realists  imitate 
life  deliberately,  and  we  measure  their  worth  by  their 
truth,  but  they  select  the  intense  moments.  The 
romancers  and  weavers  of  fairy  tales,  on  the  other 
hand,  instead  of  choosing  the  vivid  moments  of  real  life, 
in  order  to  stimulate  the  emotions,  accomplish  the  same 
end  by  exciting  wonder  and  amazement  at  the  exaggera- 
tions and  unheard-of  novelties  which  they  create. 
Yet  even  they  give  us  truth,  not  truth  in  the  sense  of 
fact,  but  in  the  sense  of  a  world  which  arouses  the  same 
elementary  emotions,  intensified  though  they  be  through 
amazement,  as  are  aroused  by  fact.  It  matters  not 
how  outlandish  their  tales  so  long  as  they  do  this. 
Love  stories  are  so  widely  interesting  because  love  is 
the  one  very  vivid  emotion  in  most  people's  lives,  al- 
though there  are  other  experiences  —  warfare,  the 
pursuit  of  great  aims,  the  clash  of  purposes  and  beliefs, 
the  growth  of  souls  —  equally  intense.  Dante's  three 
themes,  Venus,  Salus,  Virtus,1  broadly  interpreted, 
cover  the  range  of  literary  subjects. 

Of  course,  since  we  secure  no  personal  triumphs  in 
reading,  and  every  one  wishes  to  play  his  own  part 
successfully  in  real  life,  literature  cannot  become  a 
substitute  for  life,  except  with  the  artist  who  triumphs 
in  making  his  story.  Nevertheless,  as  Henry  James 
says,  fiction  may  and  should  compete  with  life,  and  this 
it  can  do  by  giving  us  the  feelings  aroused  by  action 
without  imposing  upon  us  the  responsibilities  and  the 
fateful  results  of  action  itself;  there  we  can  learn  new 
things  about  life  without  incurring  the  risks  of  partici- 
pation in  it.  We  can  play  the  part  of  the  adventurer 

1  See  his  De  Vulgari  Eloquentia. 


236  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

without  being  involved  in  any  blame;  we  can  fall  in 
love  with  the  heroine  without  any  subsequential  en- 
tanglements ;  we  can  be  a  hero  without  suffering  the 
penalties  of  heroism ;  we  can  travel  into  foreign  lands 
without  deserting  our  business  or  emptying  our  purses. 
Hence,  although  no  one  would  exchange  life  for  litera- 
ture, one  is  better  content,  having  literature,  to  forego 
much  of  life. 

The  elements  of  every  story  are  these  five :  charac- 
ter, incident,  nature,  fate,  and  milieu  —  the  social, 
historical,  and  intellectual  background.  Character 
and  incident  are  capable  of  some  degree  of  separation,  so 
far  as,  in  novels  of  adventure,  the  personalities  neces- 
sary to  carry  on  the  action  may  be  very  abstract  or 
elementary,  and  so  far  as,  in  so-called  psychological 
novels,  the  number  of  events  related  may  be  very  small 
and  their  interest  dependent  upon  their  effect  on  char- 
acter ;  but  one  without  the  other  is  as  inconceivable 
in  a  story  as  it  is  in  life  itself,  and  the  development 
of  fiction  has  been  steadily  in  the  direction  of  their 
interdependence.  Aristotle's  dictum  regarding  the 
superior  importance  of  plot  over  character  applies  to 
the  drama  only,  and  because  character  cannot  well  be 
revealed  there  except  through  action.  The  construc- 
tion of  character  depends  upon  the  delineation  of  dis- 
tinctive and  recognizable  physical  traits,  a  surprisingly 
small  number  sufficing,  a  mere  name  being  almost 
enough ;  upon  the  definition  of  the  individual's  posi- 
tion in  a  group  —  his  relation  to  family,  townspeople, 
and  other  associates  —  a  matter  of  capital  importance ; 
and,  finally,  information  about  his  more  permanent 
interests  and  attitudes.  This  construction  is  best  made 


Prose  Literature  237 

piecemeal,  the  character  disclosing  itself  gradually 
during  the  story,  as  it  does  in  life,  and  growing  under 
the  stress  of  circumstances.  The  old  idea  of  fixity  of 
character  does  not  suit  our  modern  notions  of  growth ; 
we  demand  that  character  be  created  by  the  story ;  it 
should  not  preexist,  as  Schopenhauer  thought  it  should, 
with  its  nature  as  determinate  and  its  reactions  as  pre- 
dictable as  those  of  a  chemical  substance.  And  al- 
though in  their  broad  outlines  the  possibilities  of  human 
nature  are  perhaps  fewer  in  number  than  the  chemical 
substances,  the  variations  of  these  types  in  their  vary- 
ing environments  are  infinite.  To  create  a  poignant 
uniqueness  while  preserving  the  type  is  the  supreme 
achievement  of  the  writer  of  fiction.  We  want  as  many 
of  the  details  of  character,  and  no  more,  as  are  neces- 
sary to  this  end. 

By  incident  is  meant  action  expressing  character  or 
action  or  event  determining  fate.  There  are  a  thousand 
actions,  mechanical  or  habitual,  performed  by  us  all, 
which  throw  no  light  upon  our  individuality.  Almost 
all  of  these  the  novelist  may  neglect,  or  if  he  wishes  to 
describe  them,  a  single  example  will  serve  to  reveal 
whatever  uniqueness  they  may  hide.  There  are  an 
equal  number  of  actions  and  events  like  blind  alleys 
leading  nowhere ;  from  these  also  the  novelist  abstracts  ; 
it  is  only  when  he  can  trace  some  effect  upon  fate  or 
character  that  he  is  interested.  The  delineation  of  nature 
or  the  milieu  is  governed  by  the  same  reference : 
a  social  or  intellectual  environment,  no  matter  how 
interesting  in  itself,  without  potent  individualities 
which  it  molds,  or  scenery,  no  matter  how  romantic, 
unless  it  is  a  theater  of  action  or  a  spiritual  influence 


238  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

upon  persons,  has  no  place  in  a  story.  Each  of  these, 
however,  may  by  itself  become  the  subject-matter  of  a 
literary  essay,  provided  the  writer's  own  moods  and 
appreciations  are  included;  otherwise  it  is  a  topic 
for  sociology,  history,  or  topography,  not  for  literature. 
By  fate  in  a  story  I  mean  the  writer's  feeling  for 
causality.  As  the  maker  of  an  image  of  life,  the  writer 
must  portray  life  as  molded  by  its  past  and  by  all  the 
circumstances  surrounding  it.  He  must  present  char- 
acter as  determined  by  personal  influence,  by  nature 
and  the  milieu ;  he  must  have  a  vivid  sense  for  the  in- 
terrelation of  incidents.  The  feeling  for  fate  is  inde- 
pendent of  any  special  philosophical  view  of  the  world ; 
it  does  not  imply  fatalism  or  the  denial  of  the  spontane- 
ous and  originative  force  of  personality ;  it  is  simply 
recognition  of  the  wholeness  of  life.  Nor,  again,  does 
it  imply  the  possibility  of  predicting  the  end  of  a  story 
from  the  beginning,  for  the  living  sequence,  forging  its 
links  as  it  proceeds,  is  not  mechanical ;  but  it  does 
imply  that  after  things  have  happened  we  must  be 
able  to  perceive  their  relatedness  —  the  beginning, 
middle,  and  end  as  one  whole.  In  the  story,  there 
must  be  the  same  kind  of  combination  of  necessity  and 
contingency  that  there  is  in  life :  we  must  be  sure 
that  every  act  and  incident  will  have  its  effect,  and  we 
must  be  able  to  divine,  in  a  general  way,  what  that 
effect  will  be ;  but  owing  to  the  complexity  of  life,  which 
prevents  us  from  knowing  all  the  data  of  its  problems, 
and  owing  to  the  spontaneity  of  its  agents  and  the 
creative  syntheses  within  its  processes,  we  must  never 
be  able  to  be  certain  just  what  the  effect  will  be  like; 
our  every  calculation  must  be  subject  to  the  correction 


Prose  Literature  239 

of  surprise.  Suspense  and  excitement  must  go  hand 
in  hand  with  a  feeling  for  a  developing  inner  necessity. 
There  is  no  story  without  both.  Yet  no  formula  for 
the  amount  of  each  can  be  devised.  The  dependence  of 
man  upon  nature  makes  inevitable  the  occurrence  of 
what  we  call  accidents,  violent  breaks  in  the  tissue  of 
personal  and  social  life,  unaccountable  from  the  point 
of  view  of  our  human  purposes.  By  admitting  the  part 
played  by  the  non-human  background  in  determining 
fate,  the  naturalistic  school  of  writers  have  enlarged  the 
vision  of  the  novelist  beyond  the  range  of  the  tender- 
minded  sentimentalist.  It  is  to  be  expected,  moreover, 
that  coincidences  should  occur,  —  the  meeting  of  inde- 
pendent lines  of  causation  with  consequences  fateful  to 
each.  A  careful  investigation  would  disclose  that  most 
interesting  careers  have  been  largely  determined  by 
coincidences.  The  only  demand  that  we  can  make  of 
the  artist  in  this  regard  is  that  he  do  not  give  us  so  many 
of  these  that  his  work  will  seem  unreal.  We  must  not 
feel  that  he  is  making  the  story  in  order  to  surprise  us 
and  thrill  us  —  the  purpose  of  melodrama ;  the  story 
should  make  itself.  Hardy's  The  Return  of  the  Native 
is  an  illustration  of  failure  here ;  the  coincidences  are 
so  many  that  it  seems  magical,  the  work  of  a  capricious 
genius,  not  of  nature. 

By  fate  in  a  story  we  do  not  mean,  of  course,  the 
mere  causal  concatenation  of  events,  for  some  relation 
to  a  purposeful  life  is  always  implied.  But  since  this 
relation  is  a  general  condition  applying  to  all  art,  we 
shall  consider  it  here  only  as  it  affects  the  unity  of  a 
story.  No  rule  can  be  laid  down  for  the  compass  of  a 
story ;  it  may  cover  a  small  incident,  as  in  many  short 


240  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

stories,  or  it  may  embrace  the  whole  or  the  most  signifi- 
cant part  of  a  life.  The  requirement  that  there  be  a 
beginning,  middle,  and  end  holds,  but  does  not  en- 
lighten us  as  to  what  constitutes  an  end.  Death  makes 
one  natural  end  to  a  story,  since  it  makes  an  end  to  life 
itself ;  but  within  the  span  of  a  life  the  parts  are  not 
so  clearly  defined.  Yet  despite  the  continuity  and  over- 
lapping of  the  parts  of  life,  there  are  certain  natural 
breaks  and  divisions,  —  the  working  out  of  a  plan  to 
fulfillment  or  disaster,  the  termination  or  consummation 
of  a  love  affair,  the  commission  of  a  crime  with  its  con- 
sequences, or  more  subtle  things,  such  as  the  breaking 
up  of  an  old  attitude  and  the  formation  of  a  new  one. 
In  life  itself  there  are  incidents  that  are  closed  because 
they  cease  to  affect  us  deeply  any  more,  purposes  which 
we  abandon  because  we  can  get  no  farther  with  them 
or  because  they  have  found  their  natural  fulfillment, 
points  of  view  which  we  have  to  relinquish  because 
life  supplies  us  with  new  facts  which  they  do  not  include. 
The  unity  of  a  story  should  mirror  these  natural  unities. 
The  search  for  the  wholeness  of  life  should  not  blind 
us  to  the  relative  isolation  of  its  parts;  and  there  is 
fate  in  the  parts  as  well  as  in  the  whole. 

The  selection  of  incidents  for  their  bearing  upon  fate, 
the  selection  of  significant  traits  for  the  construction 
of  character,  with  the  resulting  unity  and  simplicity 
of  the  parts  and  the  whole,  is  responsible  for  most  of 
the  ideality  of  fiction  as  compared  with  real  life.  Real 
life  is  a  confused  medley  of  impressions  of  people  and 
events,  a  mixture  of  the  important  and  the  unim- 
portant, the  consequential  and  the  inconsequential, 
with  no  evident  pattern.  Of  this,  literary  art  is  the 


Prose  Literature  241 

verklartes  Bild.  It  is  not  because,  in  literature,  men  are 
happier  and  nobler  that  life  seems  superior  there ;  but 
because  its  outlines  are  sharper,  its  design  more  per- 
spicuous, the  motives  that  sway  it  better  understood. 
It  has  the  advantage  over  life  that  a  landscape  flooded 
with  sunshine  has  over  one  shrouded  in  darkness. 

The  way  the  literary  artist  builds  up  the  ideal  social 
world  of  fiction  follows  closely  the  method  which  we 
all  employ  in  constructing  the  real  social  world.  In 
real  life  we  start  from  certain  perceived  acts  and  ut- 
terances, to  which  we  then  attach  purposive  meanings, 
and  between  which  we  establish  relations.  The  pro- 
cess of  interpretation  is  so  rapid  that,  although  strictly 
inferential  in  character  and  having  imagination  as  its 
seat,  it  seems,  nevertheless,  like  direct  perception.  As 
we  see  people  act  and  hear  them  talk,  it  is  as  if  we  had 
a  vision,  confused  indeed,  yet  direct,  of  their  inner 
lives.  And  yet,  as  we  have  insisted,  the  real  social 
world  is  constructed,  not  perceived. 

The  literary  artist,  unless  he  calls  dramatic  art  to 
his  aid,  cannot  present  the  persons  and  acts  of  his 
story ;  he  can  only  describe  them  and  report  their 
talk.  Description  must  take  the  place  of  vision,  a 
recorded  conversation  the  place  of  a  heard  one.  Yet, 
by  these  means,  the  artist  can  give  us  almost  as  direct 
an  intuition  as  we  get  from  life  itself ;  he  can  make  us 
seem  to  see  and  overhear.  From  the  acts  which  he 
describes  we  can  infer  the  motives  of  the  characters, 
and  from  the  reported  conversations  we  can  learn  their 
opinions  and  dreams.  Or  the  novelist  may  insert  a 
letter  which  we  can  read  as  if  it  were  real.  The  result- 
ing image  of  life  will  be  clearer  than  any  we  could 


242  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

construct  for  ourselves ;  for  the  artist  can  report  life 
more  carefully  than  we  could  observe  it;  and  he  can 
make  his  characters  more  articulate  in  the  expression 
of  themselves  than  ordinary  men,  giving  them  a  gift 
of  tongues  like  his  own.  This  last  is  especially  char- 
acteristic of  the  drama,  where  sometimes,  as  in  Shake- 
speare, men  speak  more  like  gods  than  like  men.  And 
we  can  listen  to  the  intimate  conversation  of  friends 
and  lovers,  upon  which,  in  real  life,  we  would  not 
intrude. 

This  direct  method  of  exposition  through  the  descrip- 
tion of  acts  and  events  and  the  record  of  conversations 
is  the  basis  of  every  vivid  story.  It  leaves  the  neces- 
sary inferences  to  the  reader,  just  as  life  leaves  them  to 
the  observer.  In  the  hands  of  a  master  like  Fontane, 
this  method  is  incomparable ;  nothing  can  supplant 
it.  It  is  the  only  method  available  for  the  dramatist, 
who,  however,  can  make  it  still  more  effective  through 
histrionic  portrayal.  Yet  it  does  not  suffice  to  satisfy 
our  craving  for  knowledge  of  life,  for  only  the  broader, 
more  obvious  feelings  can  be  inferred  from  the  acts  of 
men ;  the  subtler  and  more  remote  escape.  Even  in 
conversation  these  cannot  all  be  revealed ;  for  many 
of  them  are  too  intimate  to  be  spoken,  and  many  again 
are  unknown  even  to  those  wTho  hold  them.  To-day 
we  ask  of  the  novelist  that  he  disclose  the  finest,  most 
hidden  tissues  of  the  soul.  To  this  end,  the  microscopy 
of  analysis,  the  so-called  psychological  method,  must 
be  employed.  The  novelist  must  perform  upon  his 
characters  the  same  sort  of  dissection  that  we  perform 
when,  introspecting,  we  seek  out  the  obscurer  grounds 
of  our  conduct.  And  in  the  pursuit  of  this  knowledge 


Prose  Literature  243 

the  novelist  can  oftentimes  do  better  with  his  charac- 
ters than  we  can  do  with  ourselves.  For  utter  sincerity 
regarding  ourselves  is  impossible;  the  desire  to  think 
well  of  ourselves  prevents  us  from  recognizing  the 
truth  about  ourselves.  The  novelist,  on  the  contrary, 
can  be  unprejudiced  and  can  know  fully  what  he  him- 
self is  creating.  In  order  to  accomplish  this  same 
purpose,  the  dramatist  has  to  introduce  bits  of  self- 
analysis,  unusually  sincere  and  penetrating,  spoken 
aloud,  —  in  the  old  style,  monologues.  And  yet, 
without  sacrificing  the  truthfulness  of  his  own  art,  he 
cannot  go  so  deep  here  as  the  novelist. 

Through  his  analysis  of  his  characters,  the  novelist 
must,  however,  construct  them;  otherwise  he  is  a 
psychologist,  not  an  artist.  A  synthetic  vision  of  per- 
sonality must  supervene  upon  the  dissection,  and  the 
emotional  interest  in  character  and  action  must  subsist 
alongside  of  the  intellectual  interest.  He  must  not  let 
us  lose  the  vivid  sense  of  a  living  presence.  In  order 
to  keep  this,  he  must  continue  to  employ  the  direct 
method  of  description  of  person  and  action,  and  report 
of  conversation.  How  far  the  analytic  method  may  be 
carried  and  at  the  same  time  the  sense  of  personality 
kept  intact,  may  be  inferred  from  the  work  of  Henry 
James,  who,  nevertheless,  seems  at  times  to  fail  to  bring 
the  out-going  threads  of  his  thought  back  into  the  web 
which  he  is  weaving. 

Again,  in  order  to  reach  the  social,  historical,  and 
metaphysical  background  of  life  —  the  milieu,  the 
method  of  thought  is  the  only  available  one.  For  the 
milieu  is  not  anything  that  can  be  seen  or  heard  or 
touched ;  it  does  not  manifest  itself  to  perception,  but 


244  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

has  to  be  constructed  by  a  process  of  inference  and 
synthesis.  Much  of  it,  to  be  sure,  can  be  divined  from 
the  acts  and  conversations,  from  the  dress  and  manners 
of  the  characters,  but  there  is  always  more  that  has  to 
be  directly  expounded.  The  writer  cannot  rely  upon 
the  reader's  perspicacity  to  make  the  right  inferences, 
or  upon  his  knowledge  to  supply  sufficient  data;  nor 
can  he  make  his  characters  tell  all  that  he  may  want 
told  about  their  past  and  the  life  of  the  world  in  which 
they  live,  and  through  the  influence  of  which  they  have 
become  what  they  are.  The  novelist  must  construct 
for  the  reader  the  mise  en  scene  of  his  story.  Yet  this 
must  be  held  in  complete  subordination  to  the  story. 
The  intellectual  background  must  lie  behind,  not 
athwart  the  story ;  it  must  be  created  for  the  sake 
of  the  story,  not  the  story  for  its  sake. 

A  philosophy  of  life,  even,  is  the  inevitable  pre- 
supposition of  every  story.  For  no  writer,  no  matter 
how  direct  and  empirical  he  may  be  in  his  methods, 
can  escape  from  looking  at  life  through  the  glass  of 
certain  political,  social,  and  religious  ideas.  He  may 
have  none  of  his  own  construction,  yet  he  will  uncon- 
sciously share  those  of  his  age.  The  prose  literature 
of  our  own  age,  aside  from  some  minor  differences  of 
technique,  differs  from  that  of  the  past  chiefly  through 
its  more  democratic  and  naturalistic  views  of  life.  And 
just  as  we  rightly  ask  of  the  novelist  that  he  enlighten 
us  regarding  the  subtler  causation  of  human  action, 
so  with  equal  right  we  may  ask  him  to  exhibit  the  rela- 
tions of  the  persons  and  incidents  which  he  describes 
to  social  organization,  spiritual  movements,  and  na- 
ture ;  for  only  so  can  they  be  seen  in  their  complete 


Prose  Literature  245 

reality.  Yet  right  here  lurks  a  danger  threatening  the 
enduring  beauty  of  every  story  thus  made  complete. 
For  the  social  and  cosmic  background  of  life,  as  we  have 
observed,  can  be  constructed  only  through  thought, 
and  thought,  particularly  regarding  such  matters,  is 
peculiarly  liable  to  error.  The  artist  who  goes  very 
deep  into  this  is  sure  to  make  mistakes.  Even  when  he 
tries  to  use  the  latest  sociological,  economic,  and 
political  theories,  he  runs  great  risks  ;  for  these  theories 
are  always  one-sided  and  subject  to  correction;  they 
never  prove  themselves  to  be  what  the  artist  thinks 
and  wants  them  to  be  —  concrete  views  which  he  can 
apply  with  utter  faith.  How  many  stories  of  the  cen- 
tury past  have  been  marred  by  the  author's  too  ready 
application  of  Darwinism  to  social  life !  When  we 
can  separate  the  story  from  its  intellectual  background, 
the  inadequacy  of  the  latter  matters  little ;  for  we  can 
apply  metaphysical  and  political  criticism  to  the  theory 
and  enjoy  the  story  aesthetically;  but  many  of  our 
writers  come  to  life  with  preconceived  ideas  deeply 
affecting  their  delineation  of  it.  The  picture  no  longer 
seems  true  because  we  feel  that  a  false  theory  has  pre- 
vented the  artist  from  viewing  life  concretely  and 
clearly.  We  could,  for  example,  accept  as  natural 
and  inevitable  the  ending  of  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles, 
if  Hardy  had  not  presented  it  as  an  illustration  of  the 
cruel  sport  of  the  gods.  As  it  stands  with  the  author's 
commentary,  we  suspect  that  the  girl's  fate  might  have 
been  different,  —  that  perhaps  he  gave  it  this  turn  in 
order  to  prove  his  theory  of  life. 

This  fault  is  especially  flagrant  in  the  theory-ridden 
fiction  of  to-day.     Determination  through  the  past  is 


246  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

overemphasized  as  against  the  influence  of  present, 
novel  factors  in  a  growing  experience ;  heredity  is  given 
undue  weight  as  against  the  inborn  originality  of  per- 
sonality and  the  uniqueness  acquired  through  unique 
experiences ;  the  influence  of  sensual  motives  is  stressed 
at  the  expense  of  the  moral ;  and  so  on  through  all  the 
other  abstractions  and  insufficiencies  of  "scientific" 
novel  writing.  The  writer  may  well  profit  by  every- 
thing he  can  learn  from  science ;  but  he  should  not  let 
his  knowledge  prevent  him  from  seeing  life  concretely 
and  as  a  whole.  The  literary  man's  science  and  phi- 
losophy are  bound  to  be  condemned  by  the  expert, 
but  his  concrete  delineations  of  life  based  on  direct 
observation  and  vivid  sympathy  and  imagination  are 
impeccable.  His  theories  may  be  false,  but  these  will 
always  be  true.  Nothing  can  take  their  place  in  fiction. 
It  is  they  which  give  enduring  value  to  such  tales  as 
M orte  d' Arthur,  despite  all  the  crudity  of  the  intellectual 
background. 

Reflections  upon  life  may  become  matter  for  litera- 
ture in  the  essay,  quite  apart  from  any  story.  But  the 
essay,  like  the  story,  unless  it  is  to  compete  at  a  disad- 
vantage with  science  and  philosophy,  must  rely  upon 
first-hand  personal  acquaintance  with  life,  and  artistic 
expression.  The  more  abstract  and  theoretical  it  be- 
comes, the  more  precarious  its  worth.  I  do  not  mean 
that  the  essayist  may  not  generalize,  but  his  generali- 
zations should  be  limited  to  the  scope  of  his  experience 
of  life.  I  do  not  mean  that  he  should  not  philosophize, 
but  his  philosophy  should  be,  like  Goethe's  or  Emer- 
son's, an  expression  of  intuition  and  faith.  Properly, 
the  literary  essay  is  a  distinct  artistic  genre  —  the 


Prose  Literature  247 

expression  of  a  concrete  thinking  personality,  and  its 
value  consists  in  the  living  wisdom  it  contains.  Such 
essays  as  those  of  a  Montaigne  or  a  La  Rochefoucauld 
make  excellent  materials  for  the  social  sciences,  and  can 
never  be  displaced  by  them  as  sources  of  knowledge  of 
life. 

Considerations  similar  to  those  which  we  have  ad- 
duced regarding  the  implied  philosophy  of  a  story  apply 
to  its  moral  purpose.  We  cannot  demand  of  the 
writer  that  he  have  no  moral  purpose  or  that  he  leave 
morality  out  of  his  story.  For,  since  the  artist  is  also 
a  man,  he  cannot  rid  himself  of  an  ethical  interest  in 
human  problems  or  with  good  conscience  fail  to  use  his 
art  to  help  toward  their  solution.  His  observations  of 
moral  experience  will  inevitably  result  in  beliefs  about 
it,  and  these  will  reveal  themselves  in  his  work.  Yet 
we  should  demand  that  his  view  of  what  life  ought  to  be 
shall  not  falsify  his  representation  of  life  as  it  is.  Just 
as  soon  as  the  moral  of  a  tale  obtrudes,  we  begin  to 
suspect  that  the  tale  is  false.  We  have  such  sus- 
picions about  Bourget,  for  example,  because,  as  in  Une 
Divorce,  we  are  never  left  in  doubt  from  the  beginning 
as  to  the  conventions  he  is  advocating.  And  along 
with  the  feeling  for  the  reality  of  the  story  goes  the 
feeling  for  the  validity  of  the  moral;  they  stand  and 
fall  together.  A  story's  moral,  like  life's  moral,  is 
convincing  in  proportion  as  it  is  an  inference  from  the 
facts.  The  novelist,  fearing  that  we  may  not  have  the 
wits  to  discern  it,  is  justified  in  drawing  this  inference 
himself ;  yet  it  must  show  itself  to  be  strictly  an  infer- 
ence from  the  story  —  the  story  must  not  seem  to  have 
been  constructed  to  prove  it.  "Die  Weltgeschichte  ist 


248  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

das  Weltgericht"  wrote  Schiller;  even  so,  the  delinea- 
tion of  life  is  the  criticism  of  life.  To  show  the  scope 
of  disillusion,  monotony,  repression  —  life's  generous 
impulses  narrowed  and  made  timid  by  the  social,  eco- 
nomic, and  political  machine  —  would  be  a  criticism 
of  our  modern  world ;  there  would  be  no  need  of  moral- 
izing. This  the  Russian  novelists  seem  to  have  under- 
stood ;  they  judged  Russian  life  by  describing  it. 

The  man  who  writes  literature  as  a  means  for  pro- 
mulgating political  or  moral  ideas  is  either  a  conserva- 
tive who  desires  to  return  to  the  conventions  of  the 
past,  or  else  a  radical  who  seeks  the  establishment  of  a 
new  mode  of  life.  The  method  employed  by  the 
former  usually  consists  in  exposing  the  restlessness  and 
unhappiness  of  people  who  live  in  accordance  with 
"advanced"  ideas  in  comparison  with  the  contentment 
of  those  who  follow  the  older  traditions.  Such  stories 
are,  however,  inconclusive,  because  they  imply  the 
false  sociological  thesis  that  the  remedy  for  present 
ills  is  a  return  to  the  customs  of  the  past.  Happiness 
can  indeed  exist  only  in  a  stable  society ;  but  each  age 
must  create  its  own  order  to  suit  its  changing  needs ;  it 
cannot,  if  it  would,  go  back  to  the  old.  These  stories, 
therefore,  although  they  often  contain  truthful  and 
valuable  pictures  of  the  ills  of  contemporary  life,  and 
are  useful  in  helping  to  conserve  what  is  good  in  the 
spirit  of  the  past,  are  nevertheless  bound  to  be  futile 
in  their  main  endeavor. 

The  method  of  the  radical  usually  consists  of  two 
parts :  one  of  criticism,  designed  to  show  the  misery 
due  to  existing  laws  and  institutions ;  another  of  con- 
struction, the  disclosure  of  a  new  and  better  system. 


Prose  Literature  249 

But  here,  too,  the  constructive  part  of  the  story  is 
likely  to  be  weak.  For  whether  the  writer  sets  forth 
his  program  by  putting  it  into  the  mouth  of  one  of  his 
characters  or  appends  it  as  a  commentary  to  his  story, 
the  practicability  of  his  scheme  is  always  open  to  ques- 
tion. It  is  only  through  trial  that  any  scheme  can  be 
shown  to  be  workable.  There  is,  however,  a  new 
method  that  deserves  better  the  name  of  "experimental 
romance"  than  Zola's  own  works.  It  consists  in  por- 
traying people  living  in  accordance  with  new  senti- 
ments and  ideals,  or  even  under  new  institutions  im- 
aginatively constructed.  Yet  this  method  also  has  its 
weakness,  for  it  is  difficult  to  make  people  believe  in 
the  reality  of  a  life  that  has  not  been  actually  lived. 
Still,  this  difficulty  is  not  fatal ;  for  experiments  in 
living  are  constantly  being  made  all  around  us,  which 
the  discerning  novelist  needs  only  to  observe  and  re- 
port. He  can  show  the  success  of  these  or  how,  if  they 
fail,  their  failure  is  due,  not  to  anything  inherently 
vicious,  but  simply  to  adverse  law  and  opinion.  Life 
is  full  of  such  stories  waiting  for  some  novelist  who  is 
not  too  timid  to  tell  them. 

We  are  thus  brought  round  again  to  the  thesis  that 
the  enduringly  valuable  elements  of  every  story  are  its 
concrete  creations  of  life.  In  the  end,  the  story  teller's 
fame  will  rest  upon  his  power  to  create  and  reveal 
character  and  upon  his  sense  for  fate.  There  is  just 
one  thing  that  should  be  added  to  this  —  a  rich  emo- 
tional attitude  toward  life.  It  is  the  greater  wealth 
of  this  that  makes  a  novelist  like  Thackeray  or  Anatole 
France  superior  to  one  like  Balzac.  The  personality 
that  tells  the  story  is  as  much  a  part  of  the  total  work 


250  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

as  the  characters  and  events  portrayed,  and  must  be 
taken  into  account  in  any  final  judgment  of  the  whole. 
Without  the  author's  vivid  and  rich  participation,  we 
who  read  can  never  be  fully  engaged,  and  we  shall  find 
more  of  life  in  the  story,  the  more  there  is  of  him  in  it. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  DOMINION   OF  ART   OVER  NATURE:    PAINTING 

IN  literature,  as  we  observed  in  our  last  two  chapters, 
nature  does  not  find  aesthetic  expression  on  its  own 
account.  In  the  lyric,  nature  appears  only  as  the 
reflection  of  personal  moods  and  thoughts,  in  the 
drama  and  novel  and  epic  only  as  the  theater  of  human 
action  or  the  determiner  of  human  fate.  In  painting 
and  sculpture,  on  the  other  hand,  the  expression  of 
nature  is  the  primary  aim.  Of  course,  in  so  far  as 
this  expression  is  aesthetic,  it  is  an  expression  not  of 
nature  alone,  but  of  our  responses  as  well ;  but  nature 
is  the  starting  point,  not  emotion  as  in  lyric  poetry,  nor 
the  effect  upon  destiny  as  in  the  epic. 

Because  they  are  expressions  of  nature,  and  because 
the  copying  of  the  human  body,  of  trees,  clouds,  and 
the  like  is  an  indispensable  part  of  their  practice, 
painting  and  sculpture  have  seemed  to  give  support 
to  the  theory  of  art  as  imitation.  Yet,  although  the 
activity  of  imitation  is  a  means  to  the  creation  of 
picture  and  statue,  the  mere  fact  of  being  a  copy  is 
not  the  purpose  of  the  completed  work  nor  the  ground 
of  our  pleasure  in  it.  Not  its  relation  to  anything  out- 
side itself,  no  matter  how  important  for  its  making, 
but  its  own  intrinsic  qualities  constitute  its  aesthetic 
worth. 

This  was  true  of  the  earliest  efforts  in  these  arts. 

251 


The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

The  primitive  artist  copied  not  for  the  sake  of  copying, 
but  because  he  ascribed  a  magical  power  to  images. 
In  the  image  he  believed  he  somehow  possessed  the 
object  itself,  and  so  could  control  it;  to  the  image, 
therefore,  was  transferred  all  the  value  and  potence 
of  the  object.  The  object  represented  was  deeply 
significant;  it  was  perhaps  the  animal  upon  which 
the  tribe  depended  for  its  food,  its  totem  or  guardian 
divinity ;  or  else,  as  among  the  Egyptians,  it  was  the 
man  himself,  of  whom  the  image  was  meant  to  be  an 
enduring  habitation  for  the  soul.  If  primitive  men 
had  copied  indifferent  objects,  then  we  might  infer  that 
the  mere  making  of  an  image  was  the  end  in  view ;  but 
this  they  did  not  do,  and  it  has  never  been  the  practice 
of  any  vigorous  group  of  artists.  Only  when  the  means 
are  valued  instead  of  the  end  —  technique  in  place  of 
beauty  —  does  this  occur.  Through  such  a  mistaking 
of  aims,  new  instruments  of  expression  may  be  dis- 
covered, useful  for  a  future  genius,  but  no  genuine 
art  is  produced.  The  genuine  artist  copies,  not  for 
the  sake  of  copying,  but  in  order  to  create  a  work  of 
independent  beauty. 

This  same  transference  of  value  to  the  image,  with 
the  consequent  freeing  of  the  image  from  the  model, 
can  be  observed  even  in  commemorative  art.  A  king 
desires,  perhaps,  to  perpetuate  his  memory;  how 
better  than  through  some  enduring  likeness  in  stone 
or  paint?  While  he  is  alive  and  after  his  death  this 
image  will  remind  his  subjects  of  him  and  his  valorous 
deeds.  The  relation  to  the  model  seems  to  be  funda- 
mental ;  but  in  proportion  to  the  success  of  the  artist 
in  making  a  likeness,  the  stone  or  paint  will  be  made 


Painting  253 

to  seem  all  alive,  and  for  those  who  cannot  come  into 
direct  relations  with  the  monarch,  he  will  be  effectively 
present  in  the  statue  or  picture,  even  when,  through 
death,  he  is  removed  from  all  social  and  practical 
relations.  Who  does  not  feel  that  Philip  the  Fourth 
is  present  on  the  Velasquez  canvas ;  where  else  could 
one  find  him  so  alive?  If  the  work  is  artistic,  the 
spectator's  interest  will  center  in  feeling  the  life  in  the 
color  and  line  or  sculptured  form;  that  it  happens  to 
be  an  imitation  of  something  else  will  become  of  second- 
ary importance.  This  is  clearest  when  the  name  of 
the  subject  is  not  known ;  then  surely  it  is  the  life 
before  us  that  can  alone  concern  us.  Any  feeble 
copy  would  serve  as  a  reminder,  but  a  living  drawing 
or  statue  brings  the  man  or  woman  into  our  presence. 
The  aesthetic  interest  in  the  work  as  living  supervenes 
upon  the  interest  in  it  as  a  mere  reminder  of  life. 

This  freedom  from  the  model  and  attainment  of 
intrinsic  worth  in  the  work  of  art  itself  is  furthered 
through  the  realization  of  beauty  in  the  medium  of 
expression.  The  colors,  lines,  and  shapes  which  the 
artist  uses  have  a  direct  appeal  to  the  eye  and  through 
the  eye  to  feeling ;  hence  arise  preferences  for  the  most 
agreeable  and  expressive.  The  artist  discovered  that 
he  could  express  his  emotion  not  only  through  repre- 
senting its  object,  but  through  the  very  colors  or  lines 
or  shapes  used  in  the  delineation.  These  effects, 
found  by  chance  perhaps  in  the  first  instance,  would 
later  be  striven  for  consciously.  In  this  way,  through 
some  grace  of  line,  or  symmetry  of  form,  or  harmony 
of  color,  the  statue  or  picture  would  acquire  a  power 
to  please  quite  independent  of  any  ulterior  use  or 


254  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

purpose;  once  more,  it  would  become  alive  and  of 
value  on  its  own  account. 

We  shall  begin  our  study  of  the  representative  arts 
with  drawing  and  painting  —  representation  in  two 
dimensions  —  not  because  they  preceded  sculpture 
historically,  but  because,  being  more  complex  arts, 
a  solution  of  the  problems  which  they  raise  makes  a 
subsequent  survey  of  the  similar  problems  of  the  sim- 
pler art  relatively  easy. 

The  media  of  pictorial  expression  are  color  and  line, 
and  expression  is  attained  through  them  in  a  twofold 
fashion.  In  a  picture,  every  element  of  color  or  line 
is  expressive  directly,  just  as  color  and  line,  of  some 
vague  feeling  or  mood,  and,  in  addition,  chiefly  through 
its  resemblance,  represents  some  action  or  object. 
The  former  kind  of  expression  is  indispensable.  No 
matter  how  realistic  the  imitation,  unless  the  picture 
thrill  like  music,  through  its  mere  colors  or  lines,  it 
is  aesthetically  relatively  ineffective.  It  is  not  suffi- 
cient that  the  picture  move  us  through  the  vicarious 
presence  on  the  canvas  of  a  moving  object;  it  must 
stir  us  in  a  more  immediate  fashion  through  the  direct 
appeal  of  sense.  For  example,  a  picture  which  pre- 
sents us  with  a  semblance  of  the  sea  will  hold  us  through 
the  power  which  the  sea  has  over  us;  but  it  will  not 
hold  us  so  fast  as  a  picture  of  the  same  subject  which, 
in  addition,  grips  us  through  its  greens  and  blues  and 
wavy  lines.  The  one  sways  us  only  through  the  imag- 
ination, the  other  through  our  senses  as  well. 

Sensitiveness  to  color  as  such,  so  self-evident  to 
one  who  possesses  it,  seems  to  be  wanting,  except  in 
rudimentary  fashion,  in  a  great  many  people.  They 


Painting  255 

are  probably  few,  however,  who  do  not  feel  some 
stirrings  when  they  look  through  the  stained  glass  of 
a  cathedral  window  or  upon  the  red  of  Venetian  glass, 
or  who  are  entirely  indifferent  to  the  color  of  silk. 
The  reason  for  emotional  color-blindness  is  probably 
not  a  native  incapacity  to  be  affected,  but  rather  a 
diversion  of  attention ;  color  has  come  to  be  only  a 
sign  for  the  recognition  and  subsequent  use  of  things, 
a  signal  for  a  practical  or  intellectual  reaction.  In 
our  haste  to  recognize  and  use  we  fail  to  see,  and  give 
ourselves  no  time  to  be  moved  by  mere  seeing.  But 
when,  as  in  art,  contemplation,  the  filling  of  the  mind 
with  the  object,  is  the  aim,  the  power  to  move  of  the 
sensuous  surface  of  things  may  come  again  into  its 
rights. 

The  emotional  response  to  color,  vague  and  abstract 
and  objectless,  is,  like  music,  incapable  of  adequate 
expression  in  words,  and  for  the  same  reason.  Words 
are  capable  of  expressing  only  the  larger  and  fairly 
well-defined  emotions ;  such  subtle  shadings  and  com- 
plex mixtures  of  feeling  as  are  conveyed  by  color  and 
sound  are  mostly  beyond  their  ken.  Colors  make 
us  feel  and  dream  as  music  does  in  the  same  incommuni- 
cable fashion.  Or  rather  the  only  possibility  of  com- 
municating them  is  through  the  color  schemes  arousing 
them.  And  for  one  who  appreciates  color  this  is 
sufficient ;  he  can  point  to  the  colors  and  say  —  that 
is  what  I  feel.  To  render  his  feeling  also  in  words 
would  be  a  superfluous  business,  supposing  they  could 
be  adequate  to  express  it;  or,  if  they  were  adequate, 
that  would  make  expression  through  color  superfluous. 
The  value  of  any  medium  consists  in  its  power  to 


256  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

express  what  none  other  can.  Nevertheless,  it  is 
possible  to  find  rough  verbal  equivalents  for  the  simpler 
colors.  Thus  every  one  would  probably  agree  with 
Lipps  and  call  a  pure  yellow  happy,  a  deep  blue  quiet 
and  earnest,  red  passionate,  violet  wistful ;  would 
perhaps  feel  that  orange  partakes  at  once  of  the  happi- 
ness of  yellow  and  the  passion  of  red,  while  green  par- 
takes of  the  happiness  of  yellow  and  the  quiet  of  blue ; 
and  in  general  that  the  brighter  and  warmer  tones 
are  joyful  and  exciting,  the  darker  and  colder,  more 
inward  and  restful. 

To  explain  the  expressiveness  of  color  sensations 
is  as  difficult  as  to  account  for  the  parallel  phenomenon 
in  sounds.  Here  as  there  resort  is  had  to  the  prin- 
ciple of  association.  Colors  get,  it  is  thought,  their 
value  for  feeling  either  through  some  connection  with 
emotionally  toned  objects,  like  vegetation,  light,  the 
sky,  blood,  darkness,  and  fire,  or  else  through  some 
relation  to  emotional  situations,  like  mourning  or 
danger,  which  they  have  come  to  symbolize.  And 
there  is  little  doubt  that  such  associations  play  a  part 
in  determining  the  emotional  meaning  of  colors  — 
the  reticence  and  distance  of  blue,  the  happiness  of 
yellow,  for  example,  are  partly  explained  through  the 
fact  that  blue  is  the  color  of  the  sky,  yellow  the  color 
of  sunlight;  the  meaning  of  black  is  due,  partly  at 
any  rate,  to  association  with  mourning.  Yet  neither 
of  these  types  of  association  seems  sufficient  to  explain 
the  full  emotional  meaning  of  colors.  The  conventional 
meanings  of  colors  seem  rather  themselves  to  need 
explanation  than  to  serve  as  explanations  —  why  is 
red  the  sign  of  danger,  purple  royal,  white  a  symbol 


Painting  257 

of  purity,  black  a  symbol  of  mourning?  Is  it  not 
because  these  colors  had  some  native,  original  expres- 
siveness which  fashion  and  habit  have  only  made  more 
definite  and  turned  to  special  uses?  And  if  we  can 
explain  the  reticence  of  blue  through  association  with 
the  sky,  can  we  thus  explain  its  quietness?  Can  the 
warmth  of  fire  and  the  excitement  of  blood  explain 
quite  all  the  depth  of  passionate  feeling  in  red?  The 
factors  enumerated  play  a  part  in  the  complex  effect, 
but  there  seem  to  be  elements  still  unaccounted  for. 

In  order  to  explain  the  total  phenomenon  we  must 
admit,  as  in  the  case  of  tones,  some  direct  effect  of  the 
sensory  light  stimulus  upon  the  feelings.  Rays  of 
light  affect  not  only  the  sensory  apparatus,  causing 
sensations  of  color;  their  influence  is  prolonged  into 
the  motor  channels,  causing  a  total  attitude  of  the 
organism,  the  correlate  of  a  feeling.  It  would  be 
strange  if  any  sensory  stimulus  were  entirely  cut 
off  by  itself  and  did  not  find  its  way  into  the  motor 
stream.  But  these  overflows  are  too  diffuse  to  be 
noticed  in  ordinary  experience;  they  are  obscured 
through  association  or  are  not  given  time  to  rise  to  the 
level  of  clear  consciousness,  because  we  are  preoccupied 
with  the  practical  or  cognitive  significance  of  the  colors  ; 
only  in  the  quiet  and  isolation  of  contemplation  can 
they  come  into  the  focus.  Of  course  the  student  of 
the  evolution  of  mind  will  want  to  go  behind  these 
color  emotions  and  inquire  why  a  given  color  is  con- 
nected with  a  given  reaction.  He  may  even  want  to 
connect  them  with  instinctive  responses  of  primitive 
men.  But  here  we  can  only  speculate;  we  cannot 
know. 


258  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

The  problem  is  further  complicated  through  the 
fact  that  private  color-associations  are  formed  obscur- 
ing the  aesthetic  meanings,  which  can  be  rediscovered 
only  through  the  elimination  of  the  former.  Color  pref- 
erences are  often  determined  in  this  way ;  yet  sometimes 
they  spring  from  another  and  more  radical  source  — 
an  affinity  between  personal  temperament  and  the 
feeling  tone  of  the  preferred  color.  A  consistent  choice 
of  blues  and  grays  indicates  a  specific  kind  of  man  or 
woman,  very  different  from  the  chooser  of  yellows  and 
reds. 

Although  single  color  tones  are  expressive,  they 
seldom  exist  alone  in  works  of  art.  Significant  expres- 
sion requires  variety.  The  invention  of  original  and 
expressive  color  combinations  is  a  rare  gift  of  genius. 
Rough  rules  of  color  combination  have  been  devised 
from  the  practice  of  artists  and  from  experiment,  the 
following  of  which  will  enable  one  to  produce  faultless 
patterns,  but  without  genius  will  never  enable  one 
to  create  a  new  expression.  Color  combinations  are 
either  harmonious  or  balanced,  the  former  produced 
by  colors  or  tones  of  colors  very  close  to  one  another, 
the  latter  by  the  contrasting  or  widely  sundered. 
In  the  one  case,  we  get  the  quiet  commingling  of  feel- 
ings akin  to  each  other ;  in  the  other,  the  lively  tension 
of  feelings  opposed.  Compare,  for  example,  the  effect 
of  a  Whistler  nocturne  with  a  Monet  landscape.  The 
colors  that  do  not  go  well  together  are  such  as  are 
not  close  enough  for  union  nor  far  enough  apart  for 
contrast.  They  are  like  personalities  not  sufficiently 
at  one  to  lose  themselves  in  each  other,  yet  not  suffi- 
ciently unlike  to  be  mutually  stimulating  and  enlarg- 


Painting  259 

ing,  between  whom  there  can  be  only  a  fruitless  rivalry 
turning  into  hate.  Such  are  certain  purples  and  reds, 
certain  greens  and  blues.  Yet,  through  proper  media- 
tion, any  two  colors  can  be  brought  into  a  composi- 
tion. All  colors  are  brought  together  in  nature  through 
the  sunlight,  and  in  painting  or  weaving  by  giving  to 
rival  colors  the  same  sheen  or  brightness.  Or  again, 
the  union  may  be  effected  by  combining  the  two  with 
a  third  which  is  in  a  relation  of  balance  or  harmony 
with  each,  as  in  the  favorite  scheme  of  blue,  red,  and 
green. 

Despite  their  ability  to  express,  colors  cannot  stand 
alone;  they  must  be  the  colors  of  something,  they 
must  make  line  or  shape.  Lines,  on  the  other  hand, 
seem  to  be  independent  of  color,  as  in  drawings  and 
etchings ;  yet  there  is  really  some  color  even  there  — 
black  and  white  and  tones  of  gray.  That  color  and 
line  are  independent  of  one  another  in  beauty,  is, 
however,  shown  by  works,  such  as  Millet's,  which 
are  good  in  line  but  poor  in  color.  Lines  have,  as  we 
have  already  seen,  the  same  duality  of  function  as 
colors :  they  express  feeling  directly  through  their 
character  as  mere  lines  and  they  represent  objects  by 
suggesting  them  through  resemblance. 

There  is,  in  fact,  for  those  who  can  feel  it,  a  life  in 
lines  of  the  same  abstract  and  objectless  sort  as  exists 
in  colors  and  tones.  Lines  give  rise  to  motor  impulses 
and  make  one  feel  and  dream,  as  music  does.  There 
are  many  who  are  cold  to  this  effect ;  yet  few  can  fail 
to  get  something  of  the  vibration  or  mood  of  the  lines 
of  a  Greek  vase  painting,  a  Botticelli  canvas,  or  a 
Rembrandt  etching.  The  life  of  lines  is  more  allied 


260  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

to  that  of  tones  than  of  colors  because  it  possesses  a 
dynamic  movement  quality  which  is  absent  from  the 
latter.  This  life  is,  in  fact,  twofold :  on  the  one 
hand  it  is  a  career,  with  a  beginning,  middle,  and  end, 
something  to  be  willed  or  enacted ;  on  the  other  hand 
it  is  a  temperament  or  character,  a  property  of  the  line 
as  a  whole,  to  be  felt.  These  two  aspects  of  aesthetic 
lines  are  closely  related ;  they  stand  to  one  another 
much  as  the  temperament  or  character  of  a  man  stands 
to  his  life  history,  of  which  it  is  at  once  the  cause  and 
the  result.  Just  as  we  get  a  total  impression  of  a 
man's  nature  by  following  the  story  of  his  life,  so  we 
get  the  temperamental  quality  of  lines  by  following 
them  with  the  eye;  and  just  as  all  of  our  knowledge 
of  a  man's  acts  enters  into  our  intuition  of  his  nature, 
so  we  discover  the  character  of  the  total  line  by  a 
synthesis  of  its  successive  elements. 

It  is  as  difficult,  more  difficult,  perhaps,  to  put  into 
words  the  temperamental  quality  of  lines  as  to  do  the 
parallel  thing  with  colors.  Lines  are  infinite  in  their 
possible  variations,  and  the  fine  shades  of  feeling  which 
they  may  express  exceed  the  number  of  words  in  the 
emotional  vocabulary  of  any  language.  Moreover, 
in  any  drawing,  the  character  of  each  line  is  partly 
determined  through  the  context  of  other  lines;  you 
cannot  take  it  abstractly  with  entire  truth.  It  is, 
however,  possible  to  find  verbal  equivalents  for  the 
character  of  the  main  types  of  lines.  Horizontal 
lines  convey  a  feeling  of  repose,  of  quiet,  as  in  the 
wall-paintings  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes;  vertical  lines, 
of  solemnity,  dignity,  aspiration,  as  in  so  much  of  the 
work  of  Boecklin ;  crooked  lines  of  conflict  and  activity, 


Painting  261 

as  in  the  woodcuts  of  Diirer;  while  curved  lines  have 
always  been  recognized  as  soft  and  voluptuous  and 
tender,  as  in  Correggio  and  Renoir.  The  supposition 
that  the  curved  line  is  the  sole  "line  of  beauty"  is 
the  result  of  a  narrow  and  effeminate  idea  of  the 
aesthetic;  yet  it  must  be  admitted  that  this  form, 
since  it  permits  of  the  greatest  amount  of  variation, 
has  the  highest  power  of  expression ;  but  in  many  of 
its  more  complex  varieties  it  loses  much  of  its  soft 
feminine  quality,  and  takes  on  some  of  the  strength 
of  the  other  forms. 

The  expressiveness  of  lines  is  determined  by  several 
—  at  least  three  —  factors.  In  the  first  place,  the 
perception  of  lines  is  an  active  process.  In  order  to 
get  a  line  we  have  to  follow  it  with  the  eye;  and 
if  we  do  not  now  follow  it  with  our  fingers,  we  at  least 
followed  similar  lines  thus  in  the  past.  Now  this 
process  of  the  perception  of  a  line  requires  of  us  an 
energy  .of  attention  to  the  successive  elements  of 
the  line  as  we  pass  over  them  and  a  further  expenditure 
of  energy  in  remembering  and  synthesizing  them  into 
a  whole.  This  energy,  since  it  is  evoked  by  the  line 
and  is  not  connected  with  any  definite  inner  striving 
of  the  self,  is  felt  by  us  to  belong  to  the  line,  to  be  an 
element  in  its  life,  as  clearly  its  own  as  its  shape.  For 
example,  a  line  with  many  sudden  turns  or  changes 
of  direction  is  an  energetic  and  exciting  line  because 
it  demands  in  perception  a  constant  and  difficult  and 
shifting  attention ;  a  straight  line,  on  the  contrary, 
because  simple  and  unvarying  in  its  demands  upon 
the  attention,  is  monotonous  and  reposeful;  while 
the  curved  line,  with  its  lawful  and  continuous  changes, 


262  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

at  once  stimulating  yet  never  distracting  attention, 
possesses  the  character  of  progressive  and  happy 
action.  This,  the  primary  source  of  the  vital  inter- 
pretation of  lines  is  supplemented  by  elements  derived 
from  association.  Lines  suggest  to  us  the  movements 
of  our  bodies  along  paths  of  similar  form,  and  we 
interpret  them  according  to  the  feeling  of  these  move- 
ments ;  in  the  imagination,  we  may  seem  to  move 
along  the  very  lines  themselves  as  paths.  Every 
skater  or  runner  knows  the  difficulty  of  moving  along 
a  path  full  of  sudden  turns  and  angles,  a  difficulty 
which,  if  he  is  in  good  trim,  may  nevertheless  afford 
him  pleasure  in  the  overcoming;  the  delightful  and 
various  ease  of  moving  along  curved  lines ;  the  mo- 
notony of  a  long,  straight  path,  but  the  quick  triumph 
of  going  right  to  the  end  along  a  short  and  terminal 
line  of  this  character.  But  lines  suggest  to  us  not 
only  the  movements,  but  also  the  attitudes  of  our 
bodies.  They  may  be  straight  and  rising,  —  rigid 
or  dignified  or  joyously  expanding;  they  may  be 
horizontal  and  lie  down  and  rest ;  they  may  be  falling 
and  sorrowful ;  or  the  shapes  whose  outlines  they 
form  may  be  heavy  or  light,  delicate  or  ungainly  or 
graceful,  as  bodies  are.  Finally,  the  interpretation 
of  lines  may  be  further  enriched  as  follows  :  The  sight 
of  a  line  suggests  the  drawing  of  it,  the  sweep  of  the 
brush  that  made  it;  we  ourselves,  in  the  imagination 
once  more,  may  re-create  the  line  after  the  artist, 
and  feel,  just  as  he  must  have  felt,  the  mastery,  ease, 
vigor,  or  delicacy  of  the  execution  into  the  line  itself. 
Few  can  fail  to  get  this  effect  from  the  paintings  of 
Franz  Hals,  for  example,  where  the  abounding  energy 


Painting  263 

of  the  artist  is  apparent  in  each  stroke  of  the  brush. 
Artists  feel  this  life  in  execution  most  strongly;  yet, 
since  almost  every  one  has  had  some  practice  in  draw- 
ing lines,  it  is  potentially  a  universal  quality  in  a 
painting. 

Lines  may  be  unified  according  to  the  three  modes 
of  harmony,  balance,  and  evolution.  The  repetition 
of  the  same  kind  of  line  confers  a  harmonious  unifica- 
tion upon  a  drawing,  as  in  Tintoretto's  "Bacchus  and 
Ariadne,"  where  the  circle  is  to  be  found  repeated  in 
the  crown  and  ring,  in  the  heads  of  the  three  figures, 
in  the  breasts  of  Ariadne.  Similar  to  this  sameness 
of  form  is  sameness  of  direction  or  parallelism  of  lines. 
Another  kind  of  harmonious  unification  of  lines  is 
continuity,  where  out  of  different  lines  or  shapes  a 
single  line  is  made.  The  classical  geometrical  forms 
of  composition,  as  the  circular  or  pyramidal,  are  good 
examples  of  this.  The  "Odalisque"  of  Ingres,  where 
all  the  lines  of  the  body  constitute  a  single  line,  is  a 
notable  case.  What  Ruskin  has  called  "the  approach, 
intersection,  interweaving  of  lines,  like  the  sea  waves 
on  the  shore,"  —  the  conspiracy  of  all  the  lines  in  a 
drawing  to  form  one  single  network,  of  which  illustra- 
tions could  be  found  in  the  work  of  every  draftsman, 
is  a  kind  of  harmony  of  line.  Symmetrically  disposed 
shapes,  and  lines  whose  directions  are  opposed,  have 
the  balanced  form  of  unity.  Here,  from  a  given  point 
as  center,  the  attention  is  drawn  in  contrary  yet  equal 
ways.  Examples  of  this  type  of  composition  are 
abundant  among  the  Old  Masters;  as  a  rigid  form  it 
is,  however,  disappearing.  That  the  dramatic  type 
of  unity  is  to  be  found  in  lines  will  be  confirmed  by 


264  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

every  one  who  has  observed  the  movement,  the  career 
of  lines.  Whenever  shapes  are  so  disposed  that  they 
form  a  line  leading  up  to  a  given  shape,  wherever, 
again,  lines  converge  to  a  single  point,  there  is  a  clear 
case  of  evolution;  we  begin  by  attending  to  the  line 
at  a  certain  point,  proceed  in  a  certain  direction,  then 
reach  a  terminal  point,  the  goal  of  the  process.  In 
Leonardo's  "Last  Supper,"  the  convergence  of  the 
perspective  lines  and  the  lines  formed  by  the  groups  of 
Apostles  is  a  case  of  evolution.  The  different  types 
of  unification  are,  of  course,  not  exclusive.  In  the 
painting  just  referred  to,  all  three  are  present :  Christ 
and  the  Apostles  are  arranged  along  a  single  line, 
the  two  ends  of  which,  despite  their  symmetrical 
and  balanced  disposition,  converge  to  one  central 
point,  the  Christ.  Every  pyramidal  form  of  compo- 
sition is  a  combination  of  balance  between  the  elements 
at  the  bases  of  the  triangle,  convergence  towards  the 
apex,  and  harmony  through  the  participation  of  the 
three  elements  in  a  single  form.  One  of  the  most 
interesting  and  complex  types  of  organization  of 
lines  is  rhythm  —  the  balanced,  harmonious  move- 
ment of  lines.  A  line  is  rhythmical  when  there  is  a 
balanced  alternation  of  direction  in  its  movement,  a 
turning  now  to  the  right  and  now  to  the  left,  or  vice 
versa ;  proportion  in  the  length  of  the  segments  made 
by  the  turns ;  and  general  direction  —  a  tending 
somewhere. 

As  is  assumed  in  the  preceding  paragraph,  the  ele- 
ments of  lines  may  be  shapes  or  masses,  as  well  as 
points.  That  is,  not  only  do  lines  made  up  of  points 
form  shapes,  but  shapes  in  their  turn,  when  arranged 


Painting  265 

on  a  surface,  necessarily  make  lines.  Such  lines  are, 
as  a  rule,  not  continuous ;  yet  since  the  eye  takes  the 
shapes  successively  and  in  a  given  direction,  they  are 
nevertheless  true  lines  and  possess  the  qualities  of 
ordinary  simple  lines.  The  arrangement  of  masses  in 
an  undulating  line,  say  in  a  landscape  painting,  has 
essentially  the  same  value  for  feeling  as  a  similar  con- 
tinuous line ;  compare  this  with  a  horizontal  arrange- 
ment of  masses,  which  has  all  the  quiet  and  repose 
of  a  simple  horizontal  line. 

Colors  and  lines,  relying  on  the  direct  expressiveness 
which  we  have  been  studying,  may  stand  by  themselves, 
as  in  an  oriental  rug ;  yet  in  painting  they  have  another 
function  :  to  represent.  And  even  in  the  purely  orna- 
mental use  of  color  and  line,  the  tendency  towards 
representation  is  apparent  everywhere;  either  the 
lines  are  derivatives  of  schematized  pictures  of  men 
and  plants  and  animals,  or  else  such  objects  are  intro- 
duced as  motives  without  disguise.  In  painting, 
therefore,  the  color  red  has  value  not  only  as  so  much 
red,  but  as  standing  for  the  red  of  a  girl's  lips  or  cheeks ; 
and  that  curved  line  is  of  significance,  not  as  mere 
line  alone,  but  as  the  curve  of  her  limbs.  In  this  way 
the  native  value  of  the  sense  symbols  becomes  suffused 
and  enriched  with  the  values  of  the  things  they  repre- 
sent. The  two  functions  of  color  and  of  line  should 
never  be  indifferent  to  each  other;  representation 
should  not  become  a  mere  excuse  for  decoration,  the 
objects  represented  having  no  value  in  themselves; 
nor  should  color  and  line  be  used  as  mere  signs  of 
interesting  objects,  without  reference  to  their  intrinsic 
value.  On  the  contrary,  the  two  functions  should 


266  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

play  into  each  other's  hands.  If,  for  example,  the 
human  body  is  represented,  the  colors  and  lines  em- 
ployed should  be  so  disposed  that  they  decorate  the 
surface  of  the  picture  and  hold  us  there  through  their 
sheer  rhythm  and  quality;  yet,  at  the  same  time, 
and  through  their  very  ornamental  power,  they 
should  make  us  feel  the  more  keenly  the  values  of  the 
object  they  represent.  Between  the  immediate  values 
of  the  colors  and  lines  there  should  exist  unity : 
stimulating  colors  should  go  with  stimulating  lines, 
quiet  colors  with  quiet  lines ;  and  the  resulting  feel- 
ing tone  of  the  medium  should  be  in  harmony  with 
the  feeling  of  the  objects  represented;  the  one  should 
give  the  other  over  again,  and  so  each  enforce  the 
other. 

,  Since  it  is  not  the  purpose  of  any  art  to  represent 
mere  things,  but  to  express  concrete  "  states  of  the 
soul,"  the  center  of  which  is  always  some  feeling,  exact 
fidelity  in  the  representation  of  objects  is  not  necessary 
for  good  painting  or  drawing.  Only  so  much  of  things 
needs  to  be  represented  as  is  necessary  to  give  back 
the  life  of  them.  Necessary  above  all  is  the  object 
as  a  whole,  for  to  this  our  feelings  are  attached;  now 
this  can  usually  be  far  better  represented  through  an 
impressionistic  sketch,  which  gives  only  the  significant 
features,  than  by  a  painstaking  and  detailed  drawing. 
Since,  furthermore,  the  life  of  things  can  be  conveyed 
through  color  and  line  as  such,  a  certain  departure 
from  realism  is  legitimate  for  this  end.  Without  some 
freedom  from  the  exact  truth  of  the  colors  and  lines 
of  things,  the  artist  is  unable  to  choose  and  compose 
them  for  expressive  purposes;  when  exactly  like  the 


Painting  267 

objects  which  they  represent,  they  tend  to  lose  all  ex- 
pressive power  of  their  own,  becoming  mere  signs 
or  equivalents  of  things.  A  certain  amount  of  varia- 
tion from  the  normal  may  be  necessary  in  order  that 
the  sense  symbols  shall  call  attention  to  themselves, 
in  order  that  we  be  prevented,  as  we  are  not  in  the 
ordinary  observation  of  nature,  from  looking  through 
them  to  the  things  which  they  mean.  Whenever, 
moreover,  the  artist  wishes  to  render  a  unique  reaction 
to  a  scene,  he  can  do  so  only  through  a  courageous 
use  of  the  subtle  language  of  color  and  line,  which  may 
require  a  distortion  of  the  "real"  local  qualities  of 
things ;  for,  if  he  makes  a  plain,  realistic  copy  of  the 
scene  itself,  he  can  evoke,  and  so  express,  only  the 
normal  emotional  responses  to  it. 

When  such  departures  from  the  truth  of  things  are 
properly  motivated,  no  one  can  be  offended  by  them, 
any  more  than  when  the  brilliant  hues  of  nature  appear 
black  and  white  in  a  charcoal  drawing.  The  amount 
of  realism  in  any  work  of  art  is  largely  a  matter  of 
tacit  convention.  An  artist  may,  if  he  wishes,  use 
color  with  no  pretense  at  giving  back  the  real  colors 
of  objects,  but  for  purely  expressive  purposes  alone, 
relying  on  line  for  purposes  of  representation.  This 
is  often  done  in  Japanese  prints.  All  that  is  necessary 
is  that  we  should  understand  what  the  artist  is  doing 
and  find  what  he  presents  to  us  real  and  alive.  On 
the  other  hand,  an  expressive  use  of  color  and  line 
leading  to  a  distortion  of  objects  out  of  all  possibility 
of  recognition,  or  even  a  use  which  makes  them  seem 
unreal  and  awry,  is  without  excuse.  For  since  colors 
and  lines  are  employed  to  bring  things  before  the 


268  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

imagination,  they  should  be  made  to  serve  this  purpose 
successfully;  the  value  which  belongs  to  the  things 
should  have  a  chance  to  appear;  but  this  can  happen 
only  if  they  seem  to  be  actually  present  before  us. 
Painting  is  not  a  mere  music  of  color  and  line  expres- 
sive of  abstract  and  objectless  emotions  alone,  but  a 
poetry,  which,  through  the  picturing  of  objects  to 
which  emotions  are  attached,  renders  the  latter  con- 
crete and  definite.  Not  mere  feeling,  such  as  a  color 
or  a  line  by  itself  can  convey,  but  feeling  in  the  presence 
of  nature,  which  can  be  expressed  only  when  color  and 
line  are  made  into  a  recognizable  image  of  nature,  is 
the  substance  of  painting.  One  cannot  express  the 
feeling  of  the  weight  and  bulk  of  objects,  of  their  dis- 
tribution in  three  dimensions,  or  the  value  of  their 
shadows  or  atmospheric  enveloping,  without  the 
representation  of  weight  and  bulk  and  shadow  and 
atmosphere  and  perspective.  Every  increase  in  the 
power  to  represent  nature,  every  advance  in  the  mas- 
tery of  the  object,  adds  a  new  power  over  the  expres- 
sion of  feeling,  which  varies  with  the  object.  The 
realist  is,  therefore,  right  in  his  demand  that  nature 
itself  be  painted ;  only  he  should  remember  that  the 
nature  which  presents  itself  in  art  is  never  the  naked 
object,  but  veiled  in  feeling;  and,  as  so  veiled,  may 
sometimes  be  seen  pretty  much  as  it  really  is ;  then 
again  with  parts  concealed,  and  sometimes  even  trans- 
formed. Both  a  realism  that  tries  to  unite  fidelity 
to  the  full  qualities  of  the  object  with  musical  expression 
in  the  medium,  and  so  to  render  the  more  typical 
responses  to  nature,  which  depend,  for  the  most  part, 
on  the  object  itself,  and  a  symbolism  or  expressionism 


Painting  269 

that  sacrifices  fidelity  for  the  expression,  through  the 
mere  medium,  of  more  personal  responses,  are  in  their 
rights.  Only  the  limits  of  both  tendencies  are  illegit- 
imate —  the  use  of  color  and  line  to  produce  mere 
images  of  things  on  the  one  hand,  or  purely  musical 
effects  on  the  other. 

The  subject  matter  or  content  of  painting  is  deter- 
mined by  its  language,  color,  and  line.  These,  as  we 
have  seen,  by  an  imitation  more  or  less  exact,  represent 
nature,  the  world  of  concrete  things  as  directly  pre- 
sented to  us  in  vision,  colored  and  shapely.  The 
inner  world  is  expressed  only  so  far  as  it  is  revealed 
in  the  gestures  and  attitudes  of  the  bodies  of  men  or 
so  far  as  it  is  a  mood  attached  to  things  and  their 
colors  and  shapes.  Now  space  is  the  universal  con- 
tainer in  which  all  elements  of  the  visible  world  are 
disposed.  Every  painting,  therefore,  should  include 
a  representation  of  space;  it  should  never  represent 
things  as  if  they  stood  alone  without  environment  or 
relation.  Even  in  the  portrait  of  a  single  individual 
some  relation  to  space  should  be  indicated ;  this  is 
accomplished  by  the  background,  in  which  the  figures 
should  be  made  to  lie,  and  to  which  they  should  seem 
to  belong.  In  front,  the  space  of  a  picture  is  limited 
by  the  plane  of  the  surface  on  which  it  is  painted; 
everything  should  appear  to  belong  in  the  space  back 
of  this;  nothing  should  seem  to  come  forward  out 
towards  the  spectator.  But  behind  this,  backwards, 
the  space  represented  is  unlimited,  and  its  infinite 
depths  may  well  be  indicated  by  the  convergence  of 
perspective  lines  and  the  gradual  fading  of  the  outlines 
and  colors  of  objects. 


270  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

The  represented  space  of  the  picture  is  not,  of  course, 
the  real  space  of  the  canvas  or  of  the  room  in  which 
the  picture  hangs.  The  former  is  infinite,  while  the 
latter  is  only  so  many  square  feet  in  area.  The  frame 
serves  the  purpose  of  cutting  off  the  represented  space 
from  all  relation  to  the  real  space,  of  which  the  frame 
itself  is  a  part.  A  confusion  of  these  two  spaces  is 
sometimes  found  in  crude  work  and  in  the  comments 
of  people  upon  genuine  works  of  art.  I  have,  for  ex- 
ample, seen  a  picture  of  a  lion  with  iron  bars  riveted 
to  the  frame  and  extending  over  it,  —  a  represented 
lion  in  a  real  cage !  And  I  once  heard  a  man  criticise 
one  of  Degas'  paintings  on  the  ground  that  "if  the 
dancing  girl  were  to  straighten  her  bent  body  she  would 
bump  her  head  on  the  frame  ! "  The  rule  that  the  color 
of  the  frame  should  harmonize  with  the  main  tones 
of  the  picture  is  no  proof  that  they  belong  together; 
its  purpose  is  merely  to  protect  the  colors  of  the  paint- 
ing from  being  changed  through  their  neighborhood 
with  those  of  the  frame. 

Although  painting  is  essentially  a  spatial  art,  it  in- 
cludes a  temporal  element,  the  "  specious  present,"  the 
single  moment  of  action  or  of  motion.  The  lines  are 
not  dead  and  static,  but  alive;  they  progress  and 
vibrate;  by  their  means  a  smile,  the  rippling  of  a 
stream,  the  gesture  of  surprise,  the  movement  of  a 
dance,  may  be  depicted.  Successive  moments,  the 
different  phases  of  an  action  or  movement,  cannot, 
however,  be  represented.  Strict  unities  of  space  and 
time  should  be  observed  in  painting.  Only  contiguous 
parts  of  space  and  only  one  moment  of  time  should 
be  represented  inside  a  single  frame.  Both  these 


Painting  271 

unities  were  violated  in  old  religious  paintings  where 
sometimes  the  Nativity,  Flight  into  Egypt,  Cruci- 
fixion, and  Resurrection  were  all  portrayed  on  one 
canvas. 

The  space  of  painting  is  no  abstract  aspect  of  things 
such  as  the  geometer  elaborates.  To  be  in  a  common 
space  with  other  things,  implies,  for  the  pictorial  in- 
tuition of  the  world,  to  be  played  upon  by  the  same 
light  and  to  be  enveloped  in  the  same  atmosphere. 
Space,  light,  and  air  constitute  the  milieu  in  which 
everything  lives  and  moves  and  has  its  being  in  paint- 
ing. To  every  difference  in  the  arrangement  and 
foreshortening  of  objects,  to  every  variation  in  their 
lights  and  shadows  and  aerial  quality,  the  sensitive 
soul  responds.  The  close  proximity  of  objects  in 
a  tiny  room  has  an  effect  upon  feeling  very  different 
from  their  wide  distribution  over  a  broad  space.  An 
equal  difference  depends  upon  whether  light  is  con- 
centrated upon  objects  or  evenly  distributed  over 
them ;  upon  whether  it  is  bright  or  dim ;  upon  whether 
they  are  near  and  clear  in  a  thin  air  or  far  and  hazy 
in  a  thick  and  heavy  cloud.  The  masters  of  light  and 
air,  Rembrandt,  Claude,  Turner,  evoke  myriad  moods 
through  these  subtle  influences.  A  long  development 
and  the  following  of  many  false  paths  was  necessary 
before  painting  discovered  its  true  function  as  an 
expression  of  the  elements,  the  once  hard  outlines  of 
things  softening  in  their  enveloping  embrace. 

The  representation  of  space,  which  painting  alone 
of  all  the  arts  can  achieve,  does  not  imply,  however, 
a  representation  of  the  full  plastic  quality  of  individual 
objects,  which  is  the  function  of  sculpture.  This, 


272  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

to  be  sure,  can  be  done  in  painting,  as  the  great  sculptor- 
painters  of  the  Renaissance  have  shown;  but  it  can- 
not be  done  so  well  as  in  sculpture;  and  when  done 
tends  to  interfere  with  other  things.  It  makes  objects 
stand  out  too  much  by  themselves,  destroying  their 
felt  unity  with  other  elements  on  the  canvas,  so  that 
when  provided  with  all  the  colors  of  life,  they  seem 
rather  real  than  painted,  and  look  as  if  they  wished  to 
leave  the  world  of  representation,  where  they  belong, 
and  touch  hands  with  the  spectator.  The  depth  and 
the  extent  of  space,  the  distance  and  the  distribution 
of  objects,  light  and  shade  and  air,  are  all  independ- 
ent of  the  plasticity  of  individual  things,  which  tends 
to  disappear  in  proportion  as  they  are  emphasized. 
Only  when  attention  is  directed  to  the  individual 
object  does  its  full  plasticity  appear;  see  it  as  an 
element  of  the  environing  whole,  and  it  flattens  out 
to  view. 

There  are,  in  fact,  two  ways  of  seeing,  to  each  of 
which  corresponds  a  mode  of  painting.  On  the  one 
hand,  we  may  see  distributively,  holding  objects  as 
individuals  each  in  our  attention,  neglecting  light  and 
space  and  air.  Or  else  we  may  see  synthetically, 
first  the  whole  which  light  and  space  and  air  compose, 
and  then  individual  things  as  bearers  of  these.  The 
one  is  the  more  practical  way  of  seeing;  because,  for 
practical  purposes,  the  separate  thing  that  can  be 
grasped  and  used  is  all  important,  and  the  film  of  light 
and  air  and  the  neighborhood  of  other  things  are  of 
no  account.  The  other  is  more  theoretical  and  aes- 
thetic; for  to  a  pure  vision  which  does  not  think  of 
handling,  there  are  no  separate  things,  but  only  differ- 


Painting  273 

ences  of  shape  and  color  and  location  in  a  single  object, 
the  visible  whole.1 

In  the  type  of  painting  corresponding  to  the  first 
way  of  seeing,  objects  are  represented  more  as  we  think 
them  to  be,  or  as  we  should  find  them  on  further  ex- 
ploration, than  as  they  actually  appear  to  sight  at 
any  given  moment;  the  outlines  are  clear  and  sharp 
and  detail  is  emphasized.  This  mode  of  painting  is 
most  in  place  for  interiors  where  there  is  an  even  dis- 
tribution and  no  striking  effects  of  light  and  shade, 
as  in  so  many  genre  pictures  of  the  Dutch  school; 
but  above  all  when  the  human  significance  of  objects 
or  their  dramatic  relations,  which  depend  upon  their 
being  taken  as  separate  things,  is  to  be  expressed. 
For  example,  to  get  the  expression  of  the  action  of  a 
woman  pouring  water  into  a  jug,  it  is  necessary  that 
we  feel  the  shape  and  color  of  the  latter  as  aspects 
of  a  tangible  reality  having  a  distinct  purpose,  that 
of  holding  water;  and  this  purposefulness  makes  of 
the  object  a  separate,  individual  thing.  Yet  a  too 
great  distinction  of  objects  and  a  too  great  elaboration 
of  detail,  as  in  Meissonier  and  the  English  Pre-Raphael- 
ites,  is  inartistic;  the  picture  breaks  up  into  separate 
parts  and  all  feeling  of  unity  is  lost.  In  the  work  of 
the  Flemish  and  Dutch,  on  the  contrary,  we  take 
delight  in  the  perspicuity  of  things  without  losing  the 
sense  of  wholeness;  for  there  is  a  sameness  and  sim- 
plicity of  color  tone  which  unites  them.  A  genuine 
and  unique  aesthetic  value  is  possessed  by  such  work, 
-  that  of  clear  intuition  of  the  visual  detail  and  human 
significance  of  things. 

1  Cf.  Lipps,  Aesthetik,  Bd.  2,  s.  165,  et  seq. 


274  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

Very  often  the  unification  in  painting  of  this  type 
is  dramatic  chiefly  —  some  link  of  action  or  of  symbol- 
ism which  the  elements  of  the  picture  have  as  mean- 
ings, a  unity  of  content,  therefore,  and  not  a  coloristic 
or  a  linear  unity.  The  colors  are  essentially  local 
colors,  serving  first  to  characterize  and  distinguish 
the  objects  properly,  and  then  to  lend  to  them  severally 
high  value  through  brightness  and  temperament; 
although  harmonizing  as  mere  colors,  they  are  held 
together  more  through  some  connection  in  what  they 
mean  than  through  a  unity  of  pure  expression.  The 
dominance  of  any  one  mass,  too,  depends  more  upon 
its  superior  significance  as  meaning  than  upon  its 
claim  upon  the  attention  through  any  intrinsic  quality 
of  color.  Nevertheless,  even  if  secondary,  the  unity 
and  dominance  through  color  and  line  must  be  present, 
and  should  be  consonant  with  the  unity  and  subor- 
dination in  the  meanings.  The  painting  of  the  great 
Italian  masters  was  of  this  character.  In  a  Madonna 
picture,  for  example,  the  elements  representing  the 
Holy  Family  are  united  through  the  spiritual  oneness 
of  the  objects  which  they  represent,  and  the  Madonna 
is  dominant  through  her  superior  significance  for  the 
religious  life.  The  colors  serve  to  characterize  and 
distinguish  the  figures;  yet  between  the  former  there 
is  a  harmony  corresponding  to  the  inner  harmony  of 
the  latter;  the  spiritual  dominance  of  the  Madonna 
is  expressed  in  a  purely  formal  fashion  through  her 
larger  size,  central  position,  and  more  brightly  gleam- 
ing garments. 

In  painting  which  corresponds  to  the  synthetic 
way  of  seeing,  all  particular  objects  are  subordinated 


Painting  275 

to  space  and  light  and  air ;  their  outlines  are  melting, 
suggested  rather  than  seen,  and  there  is  little  emphasis 
on  detail.  Turner's  painting  of  light  and  the  more 
recent  examples  of  impressionism  afford  abundant 
examples  of  this.  In  this  style,  unification  is  effected 
almost  wholly  through  color  and  line  as  such,  and 
through  the  light  and  space  and  air  which  they  repre- 
sent. Just  to  live  in  the  same  atmosphere  or  in  the 
path  of  the  same  light,  to  be  enveloped  in  the  same 
darkness  or  shadow,  or  merely  to  participate  in  a 
single  composition  of  colors  or  rhythm  of  lines  serves 
to  unite  objects.  The  relative  importance  of  elements, 
too,  is  determined  rather  by  some  intrinsic  quality 
which  arrests  attention  than  by  any  supremacy  as 
meanings. 

Through  such  materials  and  methods  as  we  have 
described,  the  possibilities  and  limits  of  expression  in 
painting  are  determined.  First  of  all,  painting  has 
the  power,  through  color  and  line  as  such,  to  express 
the  purely  musical  emotions ;  this  we  demand  of 
painting  just  as  we  demand  music  of  verse :  without 
word-music,  there  is  no  poetry,  no  matter  how  high 
the  theme ;  so  without  color  and  line  music,  no  matter 
how  skillful  the  representation  or  how  noble  the  sub- 
ject, there  is  no  picture.  Painting  may  give  little 
more  than  this.  In  much  of  still-life  painting,  for 
example,  the  values  attached  to  the  objects  repre- 
sented are  borrowed  from  the  music  of  the  medium. 
And  even  when  the  objects  represented  have  a  value 
in  themselves,  the  superiority  of  their  representa- 
tion over  the  mere  perception  of  them  in  nature 
comes  from  this  source.  Why,  for  example,  does  the 


276  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

painting  of  flowers  by  a  real  master  afford  a  richer 
aesthetic  experience  than  real  flowers  ?  Painted  flowers 
have  no  perfume,  rightly  called  the  soul  of  flowers. 
It  is  because  in  painting  the  expressiveness  of  the  purer 
and  more  subtly  harmonious  colors  more  than  com- 
pensates for  the  lack  of  odor.  Through  the  music 
of  color  and  line  we  are  made  responsive  to  common 
things  which  otherwise  would  leave  us  cold,  or  if  we 
are  responsive  to  them,  our  sensitiveness  becomes 
finer  and  keener.  It  is  largely  because  he  is  so  accom- 
plished a  musician  in  color  and  composition  that  Jan 
Vermeer  can  make  the  inside  of  a  room  or  some  com- 
monplace act  by  a  commonplace  person  the  object 
of  an  intense  and  sympathetic  contemplation. 

For  the  beauty  of  landscape  also,  which  the  art  of 
painting  has  created  and  which  during  the  last  century 
has  become  its  favorite  theme,  the  music  of  color  is 
equally  essential.  In  its  highest  form,  that  beauty 
requires  emotional  responsiveness  combined  with  the 
power  accurately  to  observe  and  reproduce  the  qualities 
of  things;  without  observation  and  reproduction, 
the  feeling  is  incommunicable;  without  feeling,  the 
imitation  is  lifeless.  Love  of  the  object,  which  at 
once  reveals  and  makes  responsive,  mediates  the 
highest  achievements  of  the  art.  By  translating  the 
object  into  the  language  of  abstract  color  and  line,  it 
is  purified  for  feeling;  for  those  qualities  toward 
which  feeling  is  indifferent  are  eliminated;  only  so 
much  as  can  enter  into  an  expressive  color  or  line  com- 
position survives.  The  artist  gives  us  the  illusion  that 
he  is  reproducing  our  familiar  world  all  the  while 
that  he  is  glorifying  it  through  the  beauty  of  the  colors 


Painting  277 

in  which  he  paints  it.  The  painting  of  the  human 
body,  especially  the  nude  human  body,  belongs  to  the 
same  class  of  subjects  as  the  painting  of  landscapes. 
For  the  human  body  unclothed,  and  as  unclothed 
severed  from  the  conventional  social  world,  is  a  part 
of  nature  and  speaks  to  us  as  nature  does  through 
form  and  color.  To  bring  that  object  before  us  with 
all  its  expressive  detail ;  to  make  us,  in  the  imagination, 
move  with  it  and  touch  it ;  to  caress  it  with  our  eyes ; 
to  awaken  that  passionate  interest  which  makes  us 
see  and  feel  it  more  vividly  than  anything  else  in  the 
world,  yet  to  subdue  passion  wholly  to  a  glowing  con- 
templation, this  is  one  of  the  highest  achievements 
of  pictorial  art.  And  the  artistic  right  to  represent  it 
in  the  woods  by  lake  or  stream,  or  in  the  meadow  among 
other  natural  things,  must  be  accorded  to  the  artist 
despite  all  protests  of  convention  and  habit ;  we  never 
actually  find  it  there,  to  be  sure,  yet  there  it  belongs 
for  imaginative  feelings.  The  maidens  in  Corot's 
paintings,  for  example,  seem  to  belong  as  naturally 
to  the  landscape  as  the  very  trees  themselves. 

But  the  painter  can  depict  the  human  body  not 
merely  as  something  sensuously  beautiful,  but  as 
expressive,  through  gesture  and  pose  and  countenance, 
of  character  and  thought.  The  complex  psychic 
life  of  man  is  thus  open  to  him  for  delineation.  In 
the  portrait,  through  the  attentive  study  of  the  many 
varying  expressions  of  the  inner  life,  leading  to  the 
selection  of  some  characteristic  pose  or  action,  the 
artist  concentrates  into  a  single  image  what  seems  to 
him  to  be  the  distinctive  nature  of  the  man.  And 
he  can  express  this  nature  over  again,  and  so  more 


278  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

effectively  reveal  it,  in  the  mere  colors  and  lines  which 
he  uses.  Thus  Franz  Hals  has  embodied  the  abun- 
dance and  good  cheer  of  his  burghers  in  the  boldness 
and  brightness  of  the  lines  and  colors  with  which  he 
paints  them;  and  Hogarth,  in  the  "Shrimp  Girl," 
through  the  mere  singularity  of  line  and  color,  has 
created  the  eerie  impression  which  we  attach  to  the 
girl  herself.  The  best  portraits  subordinate  every- 
thing else,  such  as  costume  and  background,  to  the 
painting  of  the  inner  life.  Thus  Velasquez  brings 
before  us  the  souls  of  his  little  Infantas  despite  the 
queer  head-dresses  and  frocks  which  must  have  threat- 
ened to  smother  them.  The  background  should  serve 
the  same  end ;  if  elaborate,  it  should  represent  a  fitting 
environment;  and  if  plain  it  should  throw  the  figure 
into  relief.  Alongside  of  the  portrait  as  a  painting  of 
the  soul  should  be  placed  pictures  of  ideal  characters; 
ideal,  not  in  the  sense  of  good,  but  in  the  sense  of  more 
highly  complex  and  unified  than  actually  existing 
persons.  Such  pictures  symbolize  for  us  the  quintes- 
sence and  highest  level  of  definite  types  of  life.  Manet's 
"Olympia"  and  Goya's  "Maja"  belong  here  equally 
with  Leonardo's  "Christ"  or  "Mona  Lisa,"  with 
Raphael's  Madonnas  and  Michelangelo's  gods  and 
angels.  In  them  is  attained  the  most  intense  concen- 
tration of  psychic  life  possible. 

It  is  now  pretty  generally  recognized  that  the  unities 
of  time  and  space  exclude  from  the  sphere  of  painting 
story  telling  and  history,  which  require  for  effective 
representation  more  than  the  single  moment  included 
in  painting.  In  order  to  tell  a  story  in  painting, 
one  has  to  supplement  what  is  seen  with  ideas  which 


Painting  279 

can  be  obtained  only  from  a  catalogue  or  other  source 
external  to  the  picture;  one  has  to  add  in  thought 
to  the  moment  given  on  the  canvas  the  missing  mo- 
ments of  the  action.  But  a  work  of  art  should  be 
complete  in  itself  and  so  far  as  possible  self-explanatory ; 
it  should  not  lead  us  away  from  itself,  but  keep  us 
always  to  itself.  If  the  scene  represented  be  a  part  of 
a  story,  the  story  should  be  so  well  known  that  its 
connection  with  the  picture  can  be  immediately  recog- 
nized without  external  aid,  and  should  admit  of  a 
certain  completeness  in  its  various  parts.  The  life 
of  Christ  is  such  a  story;  everybody  knows  it  and 
can  interpret  a  picture  portraying  it  forthwith;  its 
various  incidents  and  situations  have  each  a  unique 
and  complete  significance  in  themselves.  Historical 
paintings  are  not  necessarily  bad,  of  course,  but  the 
good  ones  are  good  despite  the  history,  and  a  proof 
of  their  excellence  consists  in  the  fact  that  when  we 
see  them  they  make  us  forget  for  the  moment  our  his- 
torical erudition. 

This  norm  does  not  exclude  from  the  sphere  of  paint- 
ing the  expression  of  the  relation  of  man  to  his  fellows ; 
it  simply  confines  painting  to  the  delineation  of  mo- 
mentary and  self-sufficient  glimpses  of  social  life. 
Pictures  representing  a  mother  and  child,  a  pair  of 
lovers,  a  family  group,  festival,  tavern  scene,  or  battle 
charge  are  illustrations.  In  Dutch  painting  the  social 
life  of  Holland  in  the  seventeenth  century  found  its 
record ;  yet  there  is  little  or  no  anecdote.  The  genre, 
the  representation  of  a  group  of  people  united  by  some 
common  interest  and  with  an  appropriate  background, 
has  the  same  legitimacy,  if  not  the  same  eminence, 


280  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

as  the  portrait.  It  does  not  possess  the  rank  of  the 
portrait  because,  since  the  interest  is  rather  in  the 
action  or  the  situation  portrayed,  the  figures  are  more 
merely  typical,  being  developed  only  so  far  as  is  neces- 
sary to  carry  the  action;  seldom  is  a  subtle  and  indi- 
vidualized inner  life  portrayed. 

Objections  are  rightly  raised,  however,  against 
pathetic,  sentimental,  and  moralistic  painting.  Here 
color  and  line,  the  whole  picture  in  fact,  counts  for 
little  or  nothing  except  to  stir  an  emotion,  usually 
of  grief  or  pity  or  love,  or  to  preach  a  sermon;  the 
unity  of  form  and  content  is  sacrificed,  the  one  becom- 
ing a  mere  means  to  the  other.  But,  as  we  know,  it 
is  never  the  purpose  of  art  merely  to  stir  feeling;  its 
purpose  is  to  objectify  feeling;  if  the  art  be  painting, 
to  put  feeling  into  color  and  line,  and  only  when  feel- 
ing is  experienced  as  there  is  it  aesthetic  feeling  at  all. 
And  what  shall  we  think  of  a  picture  like  the  "Doctor" 
of  Luke  Fildes',  which  is  so  pathetic  that  one  cannot 
bear  to  look  at  it?  Surely  a  picture  should  make 
one  want  to  see  it !  Of  course  I  do  not  mean  that  an 
artist  cannot  paint  pathetic  and  sentimental  subjects. 
The  great  painters  of  the  Passion  would  disprove  that 
with  reference  to  the  former  and  Watteau  with  refer- 
ence to  the  latter.  But  a  power  to  achieve  beauty 
of  color  and  line  and  to  objectify  pathos  and  senti- 
ment through  them  was  possessed  by  these  painters 
to  a  degree  to  which  few  others  have  attained.  For 
moralistic  painting,  however,  there  can  be  no  excuse. 
You  can  paint  visible  things  and  as  much  of  the  soul 
as  can  appear  through  them ;  you  cannot  paint  abstract 
ethical  maxims.  Of  course  a  painter  may  intend  his 


Painting  281 

picture  to  be  an  illustration  of  some  moral  maxim, 
or  may  even,  as  Hogarth  did,  paint  it  to  expose  the 
sins  of  his  age  and  create  a  beautiful  work  notwith- 
standing; but  only  if,  in  the  result,  this  purpose  is 
irrelevant  and  the  concrete  delineation  everything. 


CHAPTER  XII 

SCULPTURE 

THE  sculptor  has  this  advantage  over  all  other 
artists,  that  his  chief  subject  is  the  most  beautiful 
thing  in  the  world  —  the  human  body.  In  two  ways 
the  body  is  supremely  beautiful :  as  an  expression  of 
mind  and  as  an  embodiment  of  sensuous  charm.  In 
the  body  mind  has  become  actually  incarnate;  there 
purpose,  emotion,  and  thought  have  taken  shape  and 
manifestation.  And  this  shape,  through  its  appeal  to 
the  amorous,  parental,  and  gregarious  feelings,  and 
through  the  complete  organization  of  its  parts,  has  no 
rival  in  loveliness.  What  wonder,  therefore,  that 
sculptors  have  always  .thought  of  their  work  as  simply 
one  of  mere  imitation  of  nature,  the  divine.  Yet  in 
sculpture,  as  in  the  other  arts,  the  imitative  process 
is  never  slavish,  but  selective  and  inventive.  For  the 
body  is  interesting  to  the  artist  only  in  so  far  as  it  is 
beautiful,  that  is,  so  far  as  it  has  charm  and  exhibits 
the  control  of  mind;  some  of  its  details  and  many  of 
its  attitudes,  having  no  relation  to  either,  are  unfit 
for  imitation ;  and,  although  inspired  by  his  model, 
the  sculptor  seeks  to  create  out  of  his  impressions  a 
still  more  harmonious  object. 

To  give  to  his  material  the  semblance  of  the  body 
beautiful  is  the  technical  problem  of  the  sculptor.  Al- 
though this  semblance  is  primarily  for  sight,  it  is  not 

282 


Sculpture  283 

exclusively  so.  For  in  sculpture  shape  is  not  two- 
dimensional,  but  plastic ;  and  for  the  full  appreciation 
of  plasticity,  the  cooperation  of  touch  is  required. 
Moreover,  not  only  the  perception  of  the  form,  but  also 
a  large  part  of  the  appreciation  of  the  charm  of  the 
body  depends  upon  touch.  Of  course  we  do  not  or- 
dinarily touch  statues,  but  they  should  make  us  want 
to  touch  them,  and  we  should  touch  them  —  in  the 
imagination.  The  surfaces  of  the  statue  should  there- 
fore be  so  modeled  as  to  give  us,  in  the  imagination, 
the  pleasures  that  we  get  when  we  touch  the  living 
body.  It  is  well  known  that  these  touch  values  were 
destroyed  by  the  neo-classicists  when  they  polished 
the  surfaces  of  their  statues.  Such  sculpture  for  the 
eye  only  is  almost  as  good  when  reproduced  in  an  en- 
graving that  preserves  its  visual  quality,  and  is  there- 
fore lacking  in  complete  sculptural  beauty.  But  no 
plane  reproduction  can  replace  the  best  Greek,  Italian, 
or  French  work. 

The  life  of  the  statue  should,  however,  be  more 
than  skin  deep.  We  should  appreciate  it  through 
sensations  of  motion  and  strain  as  well  as  through 
sight  and  touch,  feeling  the  tenseness  or  relaxation  of 
the  muscles  and  tendons  beneath.  We  should  move 
with  its  motion  or  rest  with  its  repose.  And  this  does 
not  mean  that  we  should  merely  know  that  an  attitude 
of  quiet  or  of  motion  is  represented ;  we  should  actually 
experience  quiet  or  motion.  In  our  own  bodies  sen- 
sations corresponding  to  these  should  be  awakened 
by  the  visual  image  of  the  statue,  yet  should  be  fused 
with  the  latter,  becoming  for  our  perception  its,  not 
ours,  in  accordance  with  the  mechanism  of  einfuhlung 


284  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

described  in  our  fourth  chapter.  The  light  rhythmic 
motion  of  the  figures  in  Carpeaux's  "Dance"  should 
thrill  in  our  own  limbs,  yet  seem  to  thrill  in  theirs. 

Because  it  preserves  the  full  three-dimensional  pres- 
ence of  the  body,  sculpture  is,  next  to  the  drama,  the 
most  realistic  of  the  arts.  This  realism  is  not,  how- 
ever, an  unmixed  advantage  for  general  appreciation. 
For,  finding  the  shape  of  the  body,  men  sometimes 
demand  its  color  and  life,  complaining  that  the  statue 
is  cold  and  dead ;  *  or  else,  giving  life  to  the  form,  they 
react  to  it  practically  and  socially,  as  they  would  toward 
the  real  body.  Yet,  for  the  one  attitude,  the  art  itself 
cannot  be  held  responsible,  but  rather  some  want  of 
genius  in  the  artist  or  lack  of  imagination  in  the  spec- 
tator ;  and  as  for  the  other,  although  only  a  bloodless 
dogma  would  demand  the  elimination  of  passion  and 
interest  from  the  appreciation  of  sculpture  —  for  unless 
the  marble  arouse  the  natural  feelings  toward  the  body 
it  is  no  successful  expression  —  nevertheless,  good  taste 
does  demand  that,  through  attention  to  form  and  a 
sense  of  the  unreality  of  the  object,  these  feelings  be 
subdued  to  contemplation. 

In  order  to  keep  the  statue  on  the  ideal  plane,  it 
should  not  be  too  realistically  fashioned.  If  it  looks 
too  much  like  a  man,  we  shall  first  treat  it  as  a  man,  as 
we  do  one  of  Jarley's  or  Mme.  Tissaud's  waxworks,  and 
then  after  we  have  been  undeceived,  we  shall  have 
toward  it  an  uncanny  feeling,  totally  unsesthetic,  as 
towards  a  corpse.  The  statue,  therefore,  if  life-sized, 
should  not  be  given  the  colors  or  clothing  of  life. 
Tinting  is  not  excluded,  provided  no  attempt  is  made 

1  See  Byron,  Don  Juan,  Canto  II,  cxviii. 


Sculpture  285 

at  exact  imitation;  and  when  the  statue  is  of  heroic, 
or  less  than  the  normal  size,  as  in  porcelain,  both 
coloring  and  clothing  may  be  more  realistic.  No  hard 
and  fast  rules  can  be  formulated;  yet  the  principle 
is  plain  —  there  should  be  realism  in  one  aspect,  above 
all  in  shape,  in  order  that  there  may  be  an  aesthetic 
semblance  of  life,  but  not  in  all,  in  order  that  the  statue 
may  not  be  a  mere  substitute  for  life,  awakening  the 
reactions  appropriate  to  life.  Moreover,  appreciating 
the  beauty  of  his  material,  the  sculptor  may  not  wish 
to  cover  it  up,  as  he  would  if  he  tinted  it.  As  in  paint- 
ing, the  attainment  of  beauty  in  the  medium  may 
interfere  with  full  realism  in  execution.  For  the  sake 
of  beauty  of  color,  the  worker  in  bronze  will  be  content 
to  see  the  white  man  black,  and  for  the  sake  of  beauty 
of  line  he  may  even  sacrifice  something  of  exactness 
in  the  rendering  of  shape. 

For  there  is  a  beauty  in  the  media  of  sculpture, 
apart  from  what  they  may  represent,  quite  as  real,  if 
not  as  obvious,  as  in  the  other  arts.  And  without  this 
beauty,  there  is  no  artistic  sculpture.  Its  subtlety  does 
not  diminish  its  importance  or  its  effect  upon  our 
feeling,  for  it  makes  all  the  difference  between  a  mere 
imitation  of  nature  and  a  work  of  art  charming  and 
compelling.  We  do  not  need  to  recognize  its  existence 
explicitly  in  order  to  appreciate  it ;  yet,  as  soon  as  our 
attention  is  called  to  it,  we  admit  it  and  accord  to  it 
that  rare  influence  which  before  was  felt  but  nameless. 

In  the  first  place,  the  color  of  the  material  is  ex- 
pressive. The  black  and  gold  of  bronze  have  a  depth 
and  intensity,  the  whiteness  of  marble  a  coldness, 
clarity,  and  serenity,  inescapable.  The  weight  and 


286  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

hardness,  or  lightness  and  softness,  of  the  material, 
also  count.  If  people  do  not  feel  the  expressiveness 
of  these  qualities  directly,  they  nevertheless  do  feel 
it  indirectly,  whenever  they  appreciate  the  superior 
fitness  of  marble  and  bronze  for  the  embodiment  of  the 
heroic  and  supernatural,  and  of  the  light  and  fragile 
porcelain  for  the  more  fleeting  and  trivial  phases  of 
life.  Size,  too,  is  expressive.  There  is  a  daintiness  and 
tenderness  about  a  little  statue,  contrasting  strongly 
with  the  grandeur  and  majesty  of  one  of  heroic  size. 
The  usual  small  size  of  the  terra  cotta  figurines  among 
the  Greeks  was  appropriate  for  the  genre  subjects 
which  they  so  frequently  represented,  and  an  Aphrodite 
in  this  material  is  rather  the  Earthly  than  the  Heavenly 
Love. 

There  is  also  an  evident  beauty  of  line  in  sculpture, 
similar  to  the  beauty  of  line  in  painting.  The  curved 
line  is  expressive  of  movement  and  grace;  the  hori- 
zontal, of  repose ;  the  crooked  line,  of  energy  and  con- 
flict. Compare,  from  this  point  of  view,  Rodin's 
"The  Aged  Helmet-Maker's  Wife"  with  his  "Danaid," 
-  how  expressive  of  struggle  and  suffering  are  the  un- 
even lines  of  the  former,  how  voluptuous  the  curves 
of  the  latter !  Michelangelo  is  the  great  example  of 
the  use  of  tortuous  lines  for  the  expression  of  conflict. 
Undulating  vertical  lines  are  largely  responsible  for  the 
" grace  and  dignity"  of  the  classic  sculpture. 

There  is  an  organic  unity  of  line  in  sculpture,  similar 
again  to  that  in  painting.  And  by  line  I  mean  not 
only  surface  lines,  but  the  lines  made  by  the  planes  in 
which  the  body  lies,  the  lines  of  pose  and  attitude. 
The  predominance  of  a  single  type  of  line,  the  union 


Sculpture  287 

of  many  lines  to  form  a  single  continuous  line,  balance 
and  symmetry  of  line,  proportion  of  length  and  parallel- 
ism, are  all  to  be  found  in  sculpture.  Especially  im- 
portant is  rhythm  —  the  harmonious,  balanced  move- 
ment of  lines.  In  the  "Venus  de  Milo,"  for  example, 
the  plane  of  the  lower  limbs  from  the  feet  to  the  knees 
moves  to  the  left;  there  is  an  opposite  and  balancing 
movement  from  the  right  knee  to  the  waist;  the  first 
movement  is  repeated  in  the  parallel  line  from  the  right 
hip  to  the  top  of  the  head;  this,  in  turn,  is  balanced 
by  a  line  in  the  opposite  direction  running  from  the 
left  hip  to  the  right  shoulder,  parallel  to  the  second 
line ;  but  the  equilibrium  of  line  is  not  a  rigid  one,  for 
the  body  as  a  whole  moves  in  an  undulating  line  to  the 
left,  imparting  grace  and  a  total  unity. 

The  beauty  of  line  in  sculpture  is,  of  course,  no  in- 
vention of  the  artist ;  for  nature  has  created  it  in  the 
body  itself.  The  sculptor  takes  this  beauty  as  the  basis 
of  his  work,  remodeling  only  by  the  elimination  of  de- 
tails, through  which  purer  effects  of  line  are  obtained, 
or  by  the  selection  and  emphasis  of  pose,  through 
which  these  effects  are  rendered  more  intensely  expres- 
sive. All  conventionalization  is  in  the  interest  of  in- 
creased beauty  of  line.  But  too  great  a  sacrifice  of 
the  natural  contours  of  the  body,  as  in  some  of  the 
work  of  the  Cubists,  results  in  a  lifelessness  that  can- 
not be  atoned  for  by  any  formal  beauty. 
;  The  unification  of  line  in  sculpture  is  a  matter  not 
only  of  lines  within  the  whole  and  of  single  contours, 
but  of  the  total  visual  form  of  the  whole,  of  silhouette. 
Although  three-dimensional,  every  statue  casts  a  two- 
dimensional  image  on  the  retina.  It  makes  as  many 


288  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

of  these  plane  pictures  as  there  are  points  of  view  from 
which  it  can  be  seen.  One  can  easily  convince  one- 
self of  this  by  viewing  a  statue  from  a  distance,  when 
it  will  flatten  out  to  a  mere  outline  or  silhouette.  As 
such,  it  should  be  clear  and  simple  and  pleasing,  cap- 
able of  being  grasped  as  a  whole  irrespective  of  detail. 
Michelangelo  demanded  that  every  statue  be  capable 
of  being  put  inside  of  some  simple  geometrical  figure, 
like  a  pyramid  or  a  cube;  that  there  be  no  wayward 
arms  or  legs,  but  close  attachment  to  the  body,  so  close 
that  the  statue  might  be  rolled  down  hill  without  any 
part  being  broken  off.  This  last  is  perhaps  too  rigor- 
ous a  requirement,  but  the  best  work  of  all  periods 
exhibits  visual  clarity  and  concentration.1 

Within  its  contours  the  statue  stands  alone.  This 
is  the  essential  difference  between  painting  and  sculp- 
ture; the  painted  thing  is  always  a  part  of  a  larger 
spatial  whole  within  which  it  exists  in  relation  to  other 
things,  while  the  sculptured  thing  exists  by  itself; 
the  space  of  the  statue  is  the  space  which  it  fills ;  there 
is  no  further  space  to  which  it  belongs,  no  background 
in  which  it  lies.  The  space  of  sculpture,  like  the  space 
of  painting,  is  of  course  a  represented  or  imaginary 
space,  to  be  carefully  distinguished  from  the  real  space 
of  the  room  in  which  it  is  placed  and  the  floor  upon 
which  it  stands.  The  pedestal  serves  the  same  purpose 
in  sculpture  as  the  frame  in  the  sister  art ;  it  cuts  off 
the  ideal  space  which  the  statue  fills  from  the  real 
space  where  it  is  housed,  raising  it  above  the  common 
ground  of  real  life,  with  its  practical  and  social  attitudes, 

1  Compare  Adolf  Hildebrand,  The  Problem  of  Form  in  Painting  and 
Sculpture. 


Sculpture  289 

into  the  realm  of  contemplation.  The  pedestal  should 
be  of  a  different  material  from  the  statue,  else  it  be- 
longs with  the  latter,  and  fails  to  perform  its  separating 
function.  The  plate,  on  the  other  hand,  should  be  of 
the  same  material,  otherwise  the  statue  would  be  made 
to  stand  on  our  earth,  and  in  the  same  space  with  us. 

However,  just  as  in  painting  every  object  should  be 
represented  as  belonging  to  a  wider  whole  of  space, 
so  in  sculpture,  every  part  of  the  body  should  be 
represented  as  belonging  to  the  whole  body.  If,  there- 
fore, only  a  part  of  the  body  is  sculptured,  it  should  be 
evident  that  it  is  a  part  and  not  the  whole.  In  the 
portrait  statue,  for  example,  if  the  head  alone  is  repre- 
sented, there  should  appear,  along  with  the  head,  as 
much  of  the  bust  as  will  suggest  attachment  to  the 
body,  in  order  that  it  may  not  seem  decapitated !  It 
is  because  the  torso  is  so  obviously  a  fragment  of  an 
ideal  whole  that  we  do  not  feel  it  to  be  an  uncanny 
mutilation  of  a  man  or  woman.  In  its  present  con- 
dition, the  "Venus  de  Milo"  is  not  the  statue  of  an 
armless  woman,  but  a  statue  of  part  of  a  whole  woman. 

A  statue  is  not  sufficiently  unified  by  representing 
a  single  individual  or  several  individuals  united  by 
some  common  interest  or  by  participation  in  some 
common  action ;  the  unity  in  the  object  should  be 
expressed  through  a  unity  in  the  material  of  repre- 
sentation. The  finest  taste  requires  that  every  statue 
should  be  made  of  only  one  kind  of  material.  One 
part,  say  the  body,  should  not  be  of  marble,  and  an- 
other part,  say  the  girdle,  of  gold  or  bronze.  Such 
a  combination  of  materials  gives  the  impression  of 
two  things  juxtaposed,  not  of  a  single  whole.  If  in 


290  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

defense  of  this  one  were  to  say  that  through  the  dif- 
ference of  materials  real  differences  in  the  object  are 
portrayed,  consistency  would  require  that  the  principle 
be  carried  out,  that  the  hair  be  of  another  material, 
and  the  eyes  of  still  a  third,  with  the  result  of  making 
the  statue  a  sheer  agglomerate.  And  when  more  than 
one  individual  is  represented,  even  a  unity  of  material 
is  not  sufficient;  it  is  necessary,  in  addition,  that  the 
several  figures  in  the  group  be  in  contact  with  each 
other.  It  is  not  enough  that  they  stand  on  the  same 
plate;  for  the  real  empty  space  that  we  see  between 
them  will  keep  them  apart.  The  ideal  space  to  which 
they  belong,  and  the  spiritual  or  dramatic  oneness, 
should  be  mediated  by  a  material  touch  of  hands  or 
other  parts  of  the  body.  Compare,  in  this  connection, 
Rodin's  "Citizens  of  Calais,"  where  this  principle  is 
violated,  with  the  three  figures  from  the  summit  of  his 
"Hell  Gate,"  where  it  is  observed.  In  the  former 
we  simply  know  that  the  figures  belong  together,  but 
we  do  not  feel  them  as  together.1 

In  the  normal  type  of  sculpture  only  one  figure  is 
represented.  For  this,  there  is,  perhaps,  a  chief  point 
of  regard,  in  front,  the  same  as  that  which  we  or- 
dinarily occupy  with  reference  to  our  fellow  men. 
Yet,  since  the  body  is  beautiful  from  every  point  of 
view,  the  statue,  unless  designed  to  fit  into  a  niche, 
should  be  so  made  that  we  shall  want  to  move  around 
it  and  survey  it  from  every  angle.  Here  is  another 
difference  between  painting  and  sculpture.  In  the 
group,  however,  wjaere  several  figures  are  represented 
united  by  some  common  interest  or  by  participating 

1  Compare  Lipps,  JEsthetik,  Bd.  2,  Fuenftes  Kapitel. 


Sculpture  291 

in  some  common  action,  this  difference  is  already  be- 
ginning to  disappear.  For,  in  order  to  appreciate  the 
dramatic  significance  of  the  group,  the  point  of  regard 
from  in  front  is  essential.  The  other  aspects  remain 
important  for  their  corporeal  beauty,  but,  since  that 
is  not  ordinarily  paired  with  an  equal  inner  significance, 
they  come  to  acquire  a  secondary  place. 

Impressionistic  sculpture  represents  a  further  de- 
parture from  the  normal  and  in  the  direction  of  the 
pictorial.  Here  part  of  the  block  from  which  the 
statue  has  been  hewn  is  left  an  integral  member  of 
the  piece;  and  out  of  it  the  figure  seems  to  grow,  as 
it  were.  It  performs  in  the  whole  a  function  corre- 
sponding to  the  background  of  a  portrait  —  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  environment.  Thus,  in  Meunier's 
"The  Miner,"  the  block  represents  the  mine;  in 
Rodin's  "Orpheus  and  Eurydice,"  it  represents  the 
mouth  of  Hades;  in  his  "Mystery  of  the  Spring,"  a 
basin.  Through  the  possibility  of  thus  representing 
the  relation  of  man  to  his  environment  a  notable  ex- 
tension in  the  scope  of  sculpture  is  obtained. 

When  a  background  is  introduced,  the  figure  or 
figures,  being  members  of  a  larger  whole,  require  less 
detailed  treatment,  less  clearness  of  outline.  Their 
parts  may  even  be  left  in  large  measure  unfinished, 
the  contours  melting  together  with  the  block.  A 
special  point  of  regard,  from  which  alone  the  figures 
are  modeled,  is  obviously  essential.  Striking  is  the 
contrast  of  this  type  with  the  classic,  where  the  utmost 
precision  in  modeling  is  necessary.  Along  with  the 
diminished  emphasis  on  clearness  of  form  goes  an  in- 
creased effort  at  the  portrayal  of  the  inner,  more 


292  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

spiritual  life ;  sentiment  and  mystery  find  an  unwonted 
place  in  the  art.  Rodin's  "Psyche"  is  a  good  illus- 
tration. Yet,  despite  these  differences,  the  classic 
demand  for  living  surfaces,  for  rhythmical  lines,  for 
perspicuity  and  totality  of  silhouette,  for  singleness  and 
unity  of  material,  abides. 

However,  when  the  block  attains  prominence,  the 
unification  of  the  different  figures  through  contact  is 
no  longer  of  equal  necessity.  The  background  serves 
the  purpose  of  bringing  the  figures  together,  of  pro- 
viding a  material  bond  between  them.  This  is  es- 
pecially true  in  the  various  kinds  of  relief,  between 
which  and  sculpture  in  the  round,  impressionistic 
sculpture  is  a  sort  of  compromise.  In  relief  there  may 
even  be  a  representation  of  perspective,  the  figures 
seeming  to  lie  behind  each  other,  flatter  and  smaller 
to  indicate  distance.  But  we  shall  not  enter  into 
the  technique  of  this,  which  obviously  approaches  that 
of  painting. 

When  the  charm  of  the  body  is  the  prime  object  of 
expression,  those  actions  and  poses  which  exhibit  grace 
and  vigor  are  the  ones  naturally  chosen.  This  beauty 
is  best  revealed  in  the  single  figure,  because  in  the 
group  there  is  usually  some  dramatic  interest  which 
diverts  attention  from  it.  The  figure  is  preferably 
wholly  or  partially  undraped,  or  when  drapery  is  used, 
it  should  reveal  the  body  underneath  and  possess  beauty 
of  line  of  its  own.  Elaboration  of  drapery  for  its  own 
sake,  or  in  order  to  display  virtuosity  in  modeling,  shows 
lack  of  true  sculptural  vision,  which  always  has  its 
eye  on  the  naked  form.  Aside  from  lack  of  charm,  the 
old  and  crippled  are  avoided  because  their  inhar- 


Sculpture  293 

monious  lines  would  appear  again  in  a  statue  which 
reproduced  them ;  it  is  not  possible,  as  in  painting,  to 
make  a  harmony  out  of  them  through  relation  to  other 
lines  in  the  total  work,  for  no  other  lines  exist;  nor 
can  their  natural  ugliness  be  so  easily  made  acceptable 
through  beauty  of  color  and  light.  Nevertheless,  no 
one  can  dogmatically  assert  that  the  artist  must  con- 
fine himself  in  his  choice  of  subjects.  If  by  harmoniz- 
ing the  distorted  lines  of  an  ugly  body  with  each  other, 
and  by  enhancing  the  given  purity  and  expressiveness 
of  his  material,  the  artist  can  create  a  beauty  of  form 
overlying  the  repellence  of  the  subject,  and  if  he  can 
make  us  feel  the  tragedy  or  pathos  of  age  and  disease, 
no  one  can  gainsay  his  work.  In  his  "Aged  Helmet- 
Maker's  Wife,"  Rodin  has  perhaps  accomplished  this.1 
In  the  classic  sculpture  the  expression  of  the  inner 
life  is  subordinate  to  the  expression  of  corporeal  beauty. 
Or,  so  far  as  mind  is  revealed,  the  revelation  occurs 
through  the  body  as  a  whole,  —  through  attitude  and 
pose  and  act.  In  this  way  complete  unity  between  the 
inner  and  the  outer  beauty  is  preserved.  For  when 
through  subtle  modeling  of  the  face  the  expression 
of  the  intense  and  individualized  life  of  thought  is 
attempted,  the  beauties  of  soul  and  body  tend  to  fall 
apart  and  become  rivals  for  attention.  In  classic 
sculpture,  therefore,  the  face  is  rightly  somewhat  in- 
expressive, or  better,  is  expressive  of  only  the  broad 
and  typical  human  emotions.  Fine  or  deep  qualities 
may,  however,  be  expressed ;  for  dignity,  poise,  intelli- 
gence, sorrow,  and  active  joy  make  themselves  manifest 
in  the  total  habitus  of  the  body  no  less  than  in  the  face. 

1  See  Rodin's  own  defense  of  this  statue  in  his  L'Art,  chap.  II. 


294  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

The  work  of  Michelangelo  is  a  further  proof  that 
sculpture  can  express  the  spiritual  life,  not  only  in  the 
face,  but  in  the  body  also.  The  expression  there  is 
no  different  in  essential  kind  from  that  found  in  the 
heroic  classic  sculpture.  It  is  universal,  typical,  not 
individual,  personal ;  of  the  gods,  not  of  men.  Its 
quality  alone  differs;  it  is  monstrous,  pathological, 
grandiose,  instead  of  serene  and  happily  balanced. 

But  sculpture  can  also  portray  the  individualized 
psychic  life.1  For  this,  the  portrait  bust  is  the  most 
appropriate  medium  of  expression.  By  separating 
the  head,  the  natural  seat  of  mind,  from  the  rest  of 
the  body,  the  rivalry  between  the  beauty  of  soul  and 
form  is  obviated.  How  much  sculpture  can  do  in 
this  way  is  shown  by  the  work  of  the  Greeks  and 
Romans  in  ancient  times,  and  by  such  men  as  Houdon 
and  Rodin  among  the  moderns.  Think  of  the  in- 
tense and  concentrated  expression  of  thought  and 
emotion  in  the  "Voltaire"  of  Houdon  and  the  "Dalou" 
of  Rodin  !  Success  depends  largely  upon  the  modeling 
of  the  subtle  lines  of  the  face,  where  the  more  highly 
specialized  workings  of  the  mind  leave  their  impress. 
Whatever  of  character  the  face  may  express  can  be 
expressed  over  again  in  its  image.  Of  course  the 
unique  responses  of  mind  to  definite  situations,  such 
as,  for  example,  the  conversation  of  a  man  with  his 
fellows,  cannot  be  portrayed  in  sculpture,  which  isolates 
the  individual.  But  the  characteristic  mood  and  atti- 
tude, the  permanent  residuum  and  condition  of  these 
responses,  can  be  portrayed;  and  this  constitutes 
personality  or  character.  As  Schopenhauer  declared, 

1  Consult  the  discussion  in  Rodin's  L'Art,  chap.  VII. 


Sculpture  295 

the  character  of  a  man  is  better  revealed  in  the  face 
when  he  is  in  repose  than  when  he  is  responding  to 
other  men,  for  there  is  always  a  certain  amount  of 
dissimulation  or  insincerity  in  social  intercourse.  The 
impossibility  of  rendering  the  color  and  animation  of 
the  eye  constitutes  a  real  deficiency,  but,  as  has  often 
been  pointed  out,  this  is  partly  minimized  through  the 
fact  that  the  expression  of  the  eye  depends  largely 
upon  the  brows ;  by  itself,  the  eye  is  inexpressive. 
The  portrait  statue  has  much  the  same  purpose  as 
the  bust,  and  hence  should  be  draped.  The  heroic, 
equestrian  statue,  however,  expresses  rather  the  im- 
posing, socially  perceptible  side  of  the  man,  than  the 
inner  life  of  thought  and  sentiment  revealed  in  the 
bust. 

/  The  development  of  sculpture  has  produced  nothing 
more  beautiful  than  the  solitaire  statues  which  the 
Greeks  have  left  us ;  and  when  we  think  of  Greek 
sculpture  we  usually  have  in  mind  these  marble  or 
bronze  images  of  gods  and  heroes.  But  we  should  not 
forget  the  figurines  of  terra  cotta,  a  genre  sculpture, 
representing  men  and  women  in  the  acts  and  attitudes 
of  daily  life,  at  work  and  at  play.  The  ideal  of  sculp- 
ture should  not  be  pitched  too  high.  There  is  no 
reason  why,  with  the  example  set  by  the  Greeks, 
sculpture  should  not  portray  the  lighter  and  more 
usual  phases  of  human  life.  If  sculpture  is  to  strike 
new  paths,  and  be  something  more  than  a  repetition 
of  classical  models,  it  must  become  more  realistic. 
And,  as  we  have  already  noted,  by  making  use  of  the 
block  as  a  sort  of  background,  even  some  relation  of 
man  to  his  environment  can  be  represented.  Through 


296  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

the  group  the  simpler  relations  of  man  with  his  fellows  — 
comradeship,  love,  conflict,  or  common  action  —  can 
be  expressed;  although  the  power  of  sculpture  is 
greatly  limited  in  this  direction.  Sculpture  is  often 
taxed  by  people  who  emphasize  the  importance  of  the 
political  and  industrial  mechanism  with  inability  to 
portray  large  groups  of  men  and  the  more  complex 
relations  arising  out  of  the  dependence  of  man  upon 
nature  and  society.  But  one  may  well  urge  the  com- 
pensating worth  which  sculpture  will  always  possess 
of  recalling  men  to  a  sense  of  the  value  and  beauty  of 
the  individual  as  such,  especially  in  an  age  like  our  own 
where  they  tend  to  be  forgotten. 

The  principles  that  apply  to  the  use  of  historical, 
literary,  and  symbolic  themes  in  painting  hold  with 
increased  force  in  sculpture.  We  must  admit  the  right 
of  the  sculptor  to  illustrate  simple  and  well-known 
historical  or  fictitious  situations.  At  the  same  time, 
however,  we  must  remember  that  a  work  of  this  kind  is 
subject  to  a  twofold  standard  :  first  and  indispensable, 
the  sculptural,  is  the  form  animate  and  beautiful ; 
then,  are  the  life  and  action  appropriate  to  the  idea? 
The  first  is  alone  absolutely  unequivocal.  The  second, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  largely  relative;  for  unless  the 
sculptor  has  carried  out  the  idea  in  so  masterly  a 
fashion  that  we  can  think  of  no  other  possibility  - 
as  Phidias  is  said  to  have  done  with  his  statue  of 
Zeus  —  there  must  always  be  something  arbitrary 
about  any  particular  representation.  This  arbitrary 
element  is  increased  in  symbolic  sculpture.  You  can 
perhaps  depict  an  actual  or  fictitious  human  situation 
by  means  of  sculptured  bodies  and  make  your  image 


Sculpture  297 

seem  inevitable ;  but  how  can  you  make  bodies  the 
vehicles  of  abstractions?  Moreover,  sculpture  is  a 
realistic  art;  it  presents  us  with  the  semblance  of 
living  forms,  and  if  these  forms  are  monstrous  or  are 
shown  accomplishing  impossible  things,  they  cannot 
escape  a  certain  aspect  of  the  ridiculous.  I  have  in 
mind  Rodin's  "Man  and  His  Thought."  If  the  man 
were  only  represented  fashioning  the  figure  with  his 
hands,  his  hands  guided  by  his  thought ;  but  the  hands 
are  inactive,  and  the  figure  grows  by  thought  alone ! 
Or  consider  "The  Hand  of  God"  by  the  same  artist. 
To  say  that  we  are  in  the  hands  of  God  is  a  good  meta- 
phorical way  of  expressing  our  dependence  upon  the 
Destiny  that  shapes  our  ends ;  but  it  is  another  thing 
to  exhibit  us  as  actually  enfolded  by  a  hand. 

The  more  sensitive  we  are  to  the  beauty  of  the  body 
and  of  the  mind,  so  far  as  manifest  through  the  body,  the 
better  content  we  shall  be  with  normal  sculpture  and 
the  less  urgently  we  shall  demand  symbolism.  Of 
course  all  statues  may  become  symbolic,  as  all  works 
of  art  may,  in  the  sense  of  possessing  a  universal  mean- 
ing won  by  generalizing  their  individual  significance. 
Symbolic  in  this  legitimate  way  were  the  statues  of  the 
Greek  gods ;  thus  Aphrodite,  who  was  lovely,  became 
Love,  and  Athena,  who  was  wise,  became  Wisdom. 
But  there  is  nothing  arbitrary  in  such  symbolism. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

BEAUTY  IN  THE  INDUSTRIAL  ARTS:    ARCHITECTURE 

IN  the  arts  which  we  have  studied  so  far,  beauty 
has  been  the  sole  or  chief  end ;  in  the  industrial  arts, 
beauty  can  be  only  a  part  of  their  total  meaning.  No 
matter  how  much  of  an  artist  a  builder  or  a  potter 
may  be,  he  is  necessarily  controlled  by  the  practical 
needs  which  houses  and  pots  subserve.  This  was  the 
original  condition  of  all  artists ;  for  "in  the  beginning," 
before  life's  various  aims  were  distinguished  and 
pursued  in  isolation,  the  beautiful  was  always  married 
to  some  other  interest.  Our  method  of  study  has, 
therefore,  reversed  the  temporal  order ;  but  with 
intent,  for  we  believe  that  the  nature  of  a  thing  is 
better  revealed  in  its  final  than  in  its  rudimentary 
form.  To  complete  our  survey  of  the  arts,  we  must, 
however,  give  some  consideration  to  those  works  in 
which  the  unity  of  the  useful  and  the  beautiful  is 
still  preserved ;  and  as  an  example  we  have  chosen 
architecture,  the  most  magnificent  of  them  all. 

First,  we  must  clear  up  what  might  seem  to  be  an 
inconsistency  in  our  thinking.  In  our  definition  of 
art  we  insisted  upon  the  freedom  of  beauty  and  the 
contrast  between  the  aesthetic  and  the  practical 
attitudes,  yet  now  we  are  admitting  that  some  things 
may  be  at  once  useful  and  beautiful.  It  would  seem 
as  if  we  must  either  modify  our  definition  of  art  or 

298 


Architecture  299 

else  deny  beauty  to  such  objects  as  bridges  and  build- 
ings. But  we  cannot  do  the  latter,  for  the  beauty  of 
Brooklyn  bridge  or  Notre  Dame  in  Paris  is  a  matter 
of  direct  feeling,  which  no  theory  can  disestablish. 
And  it  is  impossible  to  solve  the  problem  by  sup- 
posing that  in  the  industrial  arts  beauty  and  utility 
are  extraneous  to  each  other,  two  separable  aspects, 
which  have  no  intimate  connection.  For  the  fact  that 
a  bridge  spans  a  river  or  that  a  church  is  a  place 
of  worship  is  an  element  in  its  beauty.  The  aesthetic 
meaning  of  the  object  depends  upon  the  practical 
meaning.  You  cannot  reduce  the  beauty  of  a  bridge 
or  a  cathedral  to  such  factors  as  mere  size  and  fine 
proportions,  without  relation  to  function.  No  precon- 
ceived idea  of  the  purity  of  beauty  can  undermine 
our  intuition  of  the  beauty  of  utility. 

Yet  the  dependence  of  beauty  upon  utility  in  the 
industrial  arts  is  not  at  variance  with  the  freedom 
from  practical  attitudes  which  we  have  claimed  for  it. 
For  the  beauty  is  still  in  the  realm  of  perception,  of 
contemplation,  not  of  use.  It  is  a  pleasure  in  seeing 
how  the  purpose  is  expressed  in  the  form  and  material 
of  the  object,  not  a  pleasure  in  the  possession  of  the 
object  or  an  enjoyment  of  its  benefits.  I  may  take 
pleasure  in  the  vision  of  purpose  well  embodied  in  an 
object  which  another  man  possesses,  and  my  admira- 
tion will  be  as  disinterested  as  my  appreciation  of  a 
statue.  And  even  if  I  do  make  use  of  the  object,  I 
may  still  get  an  aesthetic  experience  out  of  it,  whenever 
I  pause  and  survey  it,  delighting  in  it  as  an  adequate 
expression  of  its  purpose  and  my  own  joy  in  using  it. 
Then  beauty  supervenes  upon  mere  utility,  and  a 


300  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

value  for  contemplation  grows  out  of  and,  for  the 
moment,  supplants  a  value  in  use.  I  now  take  delight 
in  the  perception  of  an  object  when  formerly  I  took 
delight  only  in  its  use ;  I  now  enjoy  the  expression  of 
purpose  for  its  present  perceived  perfection,  when 
once  I  enjoyed  it  only  for  its  ulterior  results.  Such 
intervals  of  restful  contemplation  interrupt  the  activity 
of  every  thoughtful  maker  or  user  of  tools.  Thus  the 
practical  life  may  enter  into  the  aesthetic,  and  that 
which  grows  out  of  exigence  may  develop  into  freedom. 

There  is  one  more  objection  which  may  be  urged 
against  the  aesthetic  character  of  the  expression  of 
practical  purpose,  namely,  that  the  appreciation  of 
it  is  an  affair  of  intellect,  not  of  feeling.  This  would 
indeed  be  fatal  if  it  were  necessarily  true;  but  all 
men  who  love  their  work  know  that  they  put  into 
admiration  for  their  tools  as  much  of  warm  emotion 
as  of  mind.  There  remains,  however,  the  genuine 
difficulty  of  communicating  this  emotional  perception 
of  useful  objects,  of  making  it  universal.  It  must  be 
admitted  that  the  attitude  of  the  average  beholder 
towards  a  useful  object  is  usually  practical,  not  con- 
templative, or  else  purely  intellectual,  an  effort  to 
understand  its  structure,  with  the  idea  of  eventual 
use.  Most  works  of  industrial  art  produce  no  aesthetic 
experience  whatever.  But  to  be  a  genuine  and  com- 
plete work  of  fine  art,  an  object  must  be  so  made  that 
it  will  immediately  impel  the  spectator  to  regard  it 
aesthetically. 

From  what  we  have  already  established,  we  know 
how  this  requirement  can  be  met :  by  elaborating  the 
outer  aspects  of  the  object  in  the  direction  of  pleasure 


Architecture  301 

and  expression.  By  this  means  the  beauty  of  mere 
appearance  will  strike  and  occupy  the  mind,  inducing 
the  aesthetic  attitude  towards  the  outside,  from  which 
it  may  then  spread  and  embrace  the  inner,  purposive 
meaning.  The  obviously  disinterested  and  warmly 
emotional  admiration  of  the  shape  will  prevent  the 
admiration  for  the  purposive  adaptation  from  being 
cold  and  abstract.  Hence,  although  from  the  point 
of  view  of  utility  the  beauty  of  mere  appearance  may 
seem  to  be  a  superfluity,  it  is  almost  indispensable 
from  an  aesthetic  point  of  view,  since  it  raises  the 
appreciation  of  the  purpose  to  the  aesthetic  plane. 
And  we  can  understand  how  enthusiastic  workmen, 
whose  admiration  for  their  work  is  already  aesthetic, 
must  necessarily  desire  to  consecrate  and  communicate 
this  feeling  by  beautifying  the  appearance  of  their 
products ;  how  inevitably,  through  the  ages,  they 
have  made  things  not  only  as  perfect  as  they  could, 
but  as  charming. 

When  developed  for  the  ends  of  the  aesthetic  life, 
the  useful  object  exhibits,  therefore,  two  levels  of 
beauty :  first,  that  of  appearance,  of  form  and  sensa- 
tion, line  and  shape  and  color ;  and  second,  that  of 
purpose  spoken  in  the  form.  The  first  is  of  the  vague 
and  immediate  character  so  well  known  to  us;  the 
second  is  more  definite  and  less  direct,  since  it  de- 
pends upon  the  interpretation  of  the  object  in  terms 
of  its  function.  The  relation  between  the  two  is  like 
that  which  obtains,  in  a  painting,  between  color  and 
line,  on  the  one  hand,  and  representation,  on  the 
other.  When  the  first  level  of  beauty  is  richly  de- 
veloped on  its  own  account,  it  becomes  ornament. 


302  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

In  a  Greek  vase,  for  example,  there  is  a  beauty  of 
symmetrical,  well-proportioned  shape,  delicate  color- 
ing of  surface,  and  decorative  painting,  which  might 
be  felt  by  people  who  knew  nothing  of  its  use;  and, 
in  addition,  for  those  who  have  this  knowledge,  a 
beauty  in  the  fine  balance  of  parts  in  the  adjustment 
of  clay  to  its  final  cause.  These  factors,  which  we 
have  distinguished  by  analysis,  should,  however,  be 
felt  as  one  in  the  aesthetic  intuition  of  the  object; 
the  form,  although  beautiful  in  itself,  should  reveal  the 
function,  and  the  decoration,  no  matter  how  charm- 
ing, should  be  appropriate  and  subordinate.  Other- 
wise, as  indeed  so  often  happens,  the  beauty  of  one 
aspect  may  completely  dominate  the  others  ;  when  the 
object  either  remains  a  pretty  ornament  perhaps,  but  is 
functionally  dead ;  or  else,  if  it  keep  this  life,  loses  its 
unity  in  a  rivalry  of  beautiful  aspects. 

All  these  points  are  strikingly  illustrated  in  archi- 
tecture. The  architects  claim  that  their  art  is  a  liberal 
one  aiming  at  beauty,  yet  most  buildings  to-day  are 
objects  of  practical  interest  alone.  Their  doors  are 
merely  for  entrance,  their  windows  for  admission 
of  light,  their  walls  for  inclosure.  Few  people,  as 
they  hurry  in  or  out  of  an  office  building  or  a  railway 
station,  stay  to  contemplate  the  majesty  of  the  height 
or  the  elegance  of  the  facade;  they  transact  their 
business,  buy  their  tickets,  check  their  luggage,  and 
go.  Even  when  the  building  has  some  claim  to  beauty, 
the  mood  of  commercial  life  stifles  observation;  or, 
if  the  building  is  observed,  there  is  no  strong  emotion 
or  vivid  play  of  imagination,  no  permanent  impression 
of  beauty  lingering  in  the  memory,  no  enrichment  of 


Architecture  303 

the  inner  life,  such  as  a  musical  air  or  a  poem  affords, 
but  only  a  transient  and  fruitless  recognition.  For 
this  reason  many  have  thought  that  buildings  must 
become  useless,  as  castles  and  ruined  temples  are,  in 
order  to  be  beautiful.  Yet,  in  proportion  as  this  is 
true,  it  involves  a  failure  on  the  part  of  architecture, 
a  failure  to  make  the  useful  a  part  of  the  beautiful. 
A  building,  which  was  designed  to  be  a  habitation  of 
man,  when  taken  apart  from  the  life  which  it  was 
meant  to  shelter  and  sustain,  is  an  abstraction  or  a 
vain  ornament  at  best.  If  the  company  which  peopled 
it  are  gone,  it  can  win  significance  only  if  we  re-create 
them  in  the  imagination,  moving  in  the  halls  or  wor- 
shiping at  the  altars.  We  cannot  get  rid  of  the 
practical  for  the  sake  of  the  aesthetic,  but  must  take 
up  the  practical  into  the  aesthetic.  For  this  reason 
architecture  has  achieved  its  greatest  successes  where 
its  uses  have  been  most  largely  and  freely  emotional, 
most  closely  akin  to  the  brooding  spirit  of  beauty  — 
in  religious  buildings. 

Most  buildings,  it  must  be  admitted,  are  not  beauti- 
ful at  all.  In  order  to  be  beautiful,  they  should  be 
alive,  and  alive  all  over,  as  a  piece  of  sculpture  is  alive ; 
there  should  be  no  unresponsive  surfaces  or  details ; 
but  most  of  our  buildings  are  dead  —  dead  walls, 
dead  lines,  oblong  boxes,  neat  and  commodious,  but 
dead.  The  practical  problems  which  the  architect 
has  to  solve  are  so  complex  and  difficult,  and  the 
materials  which  he  uses  are  so  refractory,  that  there 
is  inevitably  a  sacrifice  of  the  beauty  of  appearance 
to  utility.  The  very  size  of  a  building  makes  it  aes- 
thetically unmanageable  all  over.  Here  the  lesser 


304  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

industrial  arts,  like  the  goldsmith's,  have  an  advantage 
in  the  superior  control  which  the  workman  can  exert 
over  his  materials ;  his  work  is  that  of  a  single  mind 
and  hand;  it  does  not  require,  as  architecture  does, 
the  cooperation  of  a  crowd  of  unfeeling  artisans.  In 
architecture,  mechanical  necessities  and  forms  threaten 
to  supplant  aesthetic  principles  and  shapes.  The 
heavy  square  blocks,  the  rectangular  lines,  seem  the 
antithesis  of  life  and  beauty.  "All  warmth,  all  move- 
ment, all  love  is  round,  or  at  least  oval.  .  .  .  Only 
the  cold,  immovable,  indifferent,  and  hateful  is  straight 
and  square.  .  .  .  Life  is  round,  and  death  is  angular." l 
What  vividness  of  imagination  or  sentiment  can  trans- 
mute these  dead  and  hollow  masses  into  a  life  uni- 
versally felt  ? 

And  yet,  in  a  series  of  works  of  art  among  the  most 
magnificent  that  man  possesses,  this  miracle  was 
achieved.  The  Greek  temples  and  Gothic  cathedrals 
are  so  much  alive  that  they  seem  not  to  have  been 
made  with  hands,  but  to  have  grown.  The  straight 
lines  have  been  modified  into  delicate  curves,  the 
angles  have  given  place  to  arches,  the  stiff  and  mathe- 
matical have  been  molten  into  movement  and  sur- 
prise, the  heaviness  has  been  so  nicely  balanced  or 
overcome  that  it  has  been  changed  into  lightness, 
with  the  help  of  human  and  animal  sculpture  and 
floral  carving  the  inorganic  has  been  transformed  into 
the  organic,  by  means  of  painting  and  stained  glass 
even  the  dull  surfaces  of  walls  and  windows  have  been 
made  to  glow  into  life.  Artists  wrought  each  portion 

1  Ellen  Key,  The  Few  and  the  Many,  translated  from  a  quotation  in  Max 
Dessoir,  Msthelik  und  AUgemeine  Kunstwissenschaft,  page  396. 


Architecture  305 

and  detail,  and  built  the  whole  for  the  glory  of  God 
and  the  city,  a  monument  for  quiet  contemplation, 
not  a  mere  article  to  be  used.  With  few  exceptions, 
any  architectural  beauty  that  we  create  is  but  a  feeble 
echo  of  theirs.  Some  day  we  may  be  able  to  produce 
something  worthy  to  be  placed  by  its  side,  but  only 
when  we  have  sanctified  our  life  with  communal  aims. 
The  aesthetic  effect  of  a  building  depends  upon 
many  factors,  of  which  only  a  few  can  be  analyzed  by 
us  in  this  short  chapter.  If  we  abstract  from  its 
relation  to  purpose,  architecture  is  fundamentally  an 
art  of  spatial  form.  Working  freely  with  it,  under 
the  sole  limitation  of  function,  the  architect  can  make 
of  this  form  a  complex,  various,  and  beautiful  language 
intelligible  to  all  men,  and  possessed  of  a  systematic, 
yet  fluent  logic.  Of  this  language  the  simplest  ele- 
ment is  line.  At  first  view,  as  we  approach  a  building 
from  the  outside,  its  beauty,  as  in  the  case  of  sculpture, 
is  essentially  pictorial.  For,  although  a  building  is  a 
three-dimensional  solid  in  reality,  each  view  of  it  is  a 
two-dimensional  surface,  bounded  by  lines  and  divided 
and  diversified  within  by  other  lines.  Now  these 
lines  have  their  life  and  beauty  like  the  lines  of  a  picture. 
How  they  get  this  life  and  what  its  specific  quality  is 
in  the  case  of  particular  lines,  we  need  not  explain 
again ;  but  no  one  can  fail  to  feel  the  upward  move- 
ment of  the  vertical  lines  of  the  Gothic  style,  the  repose 
of  the  horizontal  lines  of  the  Renaissance  style,  the 
playful  grace  of  the  Rococo.  Naturally,  since  the 
front  of  a  building,  where  one  enters,  is  the  most 
important  and  the  most  constantly  in  view,  its  pictorial 
beauty  is  elaborated  with  especial  care  by  the  architect. 


306  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

This  is  the  justification  of  the  overshadowing  pre- 
eminence of  the  faga,de  in  Renaissance  palaces,  which 
indeed  was  oftentimes  the  only  visible  part  of  the 
outside  of  the  building.  When,  however,  the  building 
is  perspicuous  all  round,  it  should,  like  a  statue,  present 
a  beautiful  view  from  every  standpoint. 

In  architecture,  as  in  painting,  the  visual  elements 
are  adapted  to  one  or  the  other  of  the  two  chief  ways 
of  seeing.  Either  the  surfaces  are  seen  as  wholes 
primarily  and  the  details  in  subordination ;  or  else  the 
parts  stand  out  clear  and  distinct,  and  the  whole  is 
their  summation.  The  former  is  always  the  case 
when  the  surfaces  are  left  plain  with  few  divisions, 
or,  if  the  surfaces  are  divided,  when  the  lines  intersect 
and  intermingle,  as  is  exemplified  in  late  Renaissance 
or  Baroque  work,  where  the  walls  are  covered  with 
lavish  ornament,  the  enframement  of  windows  is 
broken  by  moldings  and  sculpture  which  carry  into 
the  surrounding  spaces,  and  where,  instead  of  em- 
bracing one  story,  the  "orders"  comprise  the  entire 
height  of  the  building.  The  second  possibility  is 
well  illustrated  by  the  early  classical  Renaissance, 
where  the  surface  of  each  story,  sharply  separated 
from  the  others  by  the  line  of  the  frieze,  is  divided 
regularly  by  arches  or  columns,  each  window  clearly 
enframed,  and  every  sculptured  ornament  provided 
with  a  niche. 

There  is,  however,  this  fundamental  difference  be- 
tween architectural  and  pictorial  lines :  the  latter 
are  usually  pure  kinematical  lines,  lines  of  free  and  un- 
resisted  movement,  while  the  former  are  usually 
dynamical,  lines  of  force  which  move  against  the 


Architecture  307 

resistance  of  mass.  In  a  picture  objects  are  volatilized 
into  light  and  have  lost  all  weight ;  but  in  architecture, 
since  they  are  present  in  reality  and  not  in  mere  sem- 
blance, their  weight  is  retained.  A  Greek  column, 
for  example,  not  only  moves  upward,  but  also  against 
the  superincumbent  load  of  the  entablature  which  it 
carries.  The  difference  between  the  two  arts  can 
be  appreciated  by  comparing  the  picture  of  a  building 
with  the  building  itself;  in  the  former,  despite  the 
fact  that  we  know  how  heavy  the  dome  or  pediment  is, 
and  how  strong  therefore  the  piers  or  columns  that 
support  it,  we  hardly  feel  them  as  heavy  or  strong  at 
all  —  the  forces  and  masses  have  been  transformed  into 
abstract  lines  and  shapes.  Sometimes,  however,  archi- 
tectural lines  and  surfaces  remain  purely  kinematical ; 
on  the  inside  of  our  rooms,  for  example,  when  the  sur- 
faces are  smooth,  and  especially  when  they  are  deco- 
rated, we  often  feel  no  tension  of  conflicting  forces, 
but  only  a  quiet  play  of  movements;  it  is  as  if  the 
walls  had  been  changed  into  the  paper  or  paint  that 
covers  them.  The  vividness  of  the  expression  of 
mechanical  forces  in  architecture  depends,  moreover, 
upon  the  kind  of  materials  employed;  it  is  greater  in 
marble  than  in  wood,  and  less  in  our  modern  con- 
structions of  steel  and  glass,  where  the  piers  move  in 
single  vertical  lines  from  the  bottom  to  the  top  of  the 
building,  than  in  the  old  forms,  where  the  upper  part 
of  the  building  is  frankly  carried  by  the  lower. 

The  mere  expression  of  mechanical  forces  in  a  build- 
ing would  not,  however,  be  aesthetic  by  itself,  no 
matter  how  obvious  to  the  mind.  We  must  not  only 
know  these  forces  to  be  there,  we  must  also  feel  them 


308  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

as  there;  we  must  appreciate  them  in  terms  of  our 
own  experiences  in  supporting  weights  and  overcoming 
resistances.  We  must  transform  the  mechanical  into 
the  vital,  the  material  into  the  human.  Art  is  an 
expression  of  life,  not  of  mathematics.  And  this 
translation  is  not  the  result  of  an  unusual,  artificial 
attitude  assumed  for  the  sake  of  aesthetic  appreciation ; 
it  is  the  natural  mode  of  apperceiving  force  and  mass. 
We  cannot  see  a  column  supporting  an  entablature 
without  feeling  that  it  stands  firm  to  bear  the  weight, 
much  as  we  should  stand  if  we  were  in  its  place.  If 
this  is  a  "pathetic  fallacy,"  it  is  one  which  we  all  in- 
evitably commit.  Even  the  skeptic,  if  he  were  to 
examine  carefully  into  his  own  mind,  would  find  that 
he  commits  it,  whenever  he  gives  to  the  column,  not 
a  casual  or  merely  calculating  regard,  but  a  free  and 
earnest  attention.  If  he  gives  his  mind  to  the  column 
and  lets  the  column  take  hold  of  his  mind,  allowing 
his  psychological  mechanism  to  work  unhampered,  he 
will  commit  it.  The  aesthetic  intuition  of  force  —  the 
human  way  of  appreciating  it  —  is,  in  fact,  primary ; 
the  purely  mechanical  and  mathematical  is  an  ab- 
straction, superimposed  for  practical  and  scientific 
purposes. 

The  interplay  of  humanized  mechanical  energies, 
of  which  architecture  is  the  expression,  may  be  con- 
ceived as  the  resultant  of  four  chief  forces,  acting  each 
in  a  definite  direction :  upward,  downward,  outward, 
and  inward.  The  downward  force  is  associated  with 
the  weight  of  the  materials  of  which  the  building  is 
constructed.  To  all  physical  objects  we  ascribe  a 
tendency  toward  the  earth.  An  unsupported  weight 


Architecture  309 

will  fall,  and  even  when  supported  will  exert  a  pressure 
downward.  And  this  tendency  is  no  mere  directed 
force  in  the  physical  sense,  but  an  impulse,  in  the 
personal  sense.  For  when  with  hand  or  shoulder 
we  support  a  weight,  we  inevitably  interpret  it  in 
terms  of  our  own  voluntary  muscular  exertion  in  re- 
sisting it ;  even  as  we  strive  to  resist  it,  so  it  seems 
to  strive  to  fall.  Although  this  force  is  exerted  down- 
ward, it  shows  itself  in  the  horizontal  lines  of  a  build- 
ing, in  string  courses,  parapets,  cornices,  friezes ;  for 
the  horizontal  is  the  line  parallel  to  the  earth,  toward 
which  the  force  is  directed,  and  along  which  we  lie 
when  we  rest.1 

Opposed  to  the  downward  force  is  the  upward  force. 
If  an  object  does  not  fall,  it  must  be  supported  by  a 
force  in  the  upward  direction ;  the  hand  must  exert  a 
force  perpendicular  to  the  mass  which  it  carries ;  the 
body  must  hold  itself  erect  in  order  to  bear  its  own 
weight.  Just  so,  an  architectural  member,  if  it  is  not 
to  collapse,  must  raise  itself  upward.  Upward  forces 
are  revealed  by  the  vertical  lines  of  a  building  —  the 
prevailing  lines  of  columns,  piers,  shafts,  pinnacles, 
towers,  spires.  We  interpret  vertical  lines  as  moving 
upward,  partly  because  the  eye  moves  upward  in 
scanning  them,  partly  because  we  ourselves  move  in 
lines  of  this  general  direction  in  going  from  the  bottom 
to  the  top  of  a  building.  Even  when  we  are  at  the 
top  of  a  building  we  apprehend  its  vertical  lines  as 
rising  rather  than  as  descending,  because  we  ourselves 
had  to  rise  in  order  to  get  there.  Converging  lines, 

1  Compare  the  discussion  of  Lipps,  JEsthetik,  Bd.  1,  Dritter  Abschnitt, 
although  I  am  far  from  accepting  all  of  his  analyses. 


310  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

as  of  towers  and  spires,  we  also  interpret  in  the  same 
way  as  going  to  the  point  of  meeting  above. 

Acting  in  conjunction  with  the  downward  force  is 
an  outward  one.  The  lower  parts  of  a  construction 
tend  to  spread  out  as  they  give  way  under  the  weight 
of  the  superincumbent  masses ;  if  they  are  very  much 
broader  than  the  latter,  they  give  the  impression  of 
great  weight  carried.  As  a  result,  a  horizontal  line 
is  introduced,  and  the  longer  it  is  in  comparison  with 
the  vertical  line  of  height,  the  heavier  the  effect.  Com- 
pare, for  example,  the  impression  made  by  a  tall  and 
thin  triangular  shape,  with  a  low  and  broad  one ;  and 
compare  also  the  relative  lengths  of  the  horizontal 
and  the  vertical  lines.  The  former  shape  seems  simply 
to  rise,  while  the  latter  lifts.  We  seem  to  observe  the 
working  of  this  outward  force,  as  Lipps  has  remarked, 
in  the  spreading  out  of  the  trunks  of  trees  at  the  base 
and  in  the  feet  of  animals ;  and  we  feel  it  in  our- 
selves whenever  we  spread  our  limbs  apart  to  brace 
ourselves  to  withstand  a  load. 

Whenever  the  outward  force  is  resisted,  it  gives 
evidence  of  the  existence  of  a  force  operating  hi  the 
opposed  direction  —  inward.  Without  this  force,  the 
lower  parts  of  a  construction  would  lack  all  solidity 
and  spread  like  a  molten  mass  on  the  ground.  This 
is  especially  striking  where  the  material,  instead  of 
spreading  outward  and  downward,  seems  to  press 
itself  inward  and  upward.  Compare,  for  example,  a 
shape  whose  base-line  is  smaller  than  the  line  of  its 
top  with  one  in  which  the  reverse  holds  true.  The 
former  gives  the  impression  of  lightness  and  agility, 
with  a  prevailing  upward  trend,  the  other  an  impres- 


Architecture  311 

sion  of  weight  and  heaviness,  with  a  prevailing  trend 
towards  the  ground.  Obviously,  the  outward  and  the 
inward  forces  are  correlative  and  complementary :  we 
have  already  observed  that  a  construction  would 
collapse  without  the  inward;  we  can  now  see  that  it 
would  disappear  entirely  without  the  outward.  Ob- 
viously, also,  the  inward  and  upward  go  together,  and 
the  downward  and  outward. 

Even  a  plain  rectangular  wall  manifests  the  inter- 
play of  these  forces.  The  horizontal  dimension  repre- 
sents the  downward  and  outward  force  of  the  weight; 
the  vertical  dimension,  the  upward  forces,  which 
prevent  the  wall  from  collapsing  in  itself  and  hold  it 
upright;  while  the  lateral  boundaries  give  evidence 
of  the  inward  tension  that  keeps  the  mass  together. 
But  the  most  beautiful  expressions  of  architectural 
forces  are  to  be  found  in  the  historical  styles.  In 
each  style  there  is  a  characteristic  relationship  between 
the  forces,  imparting  a  distinctive  feeling.  I  shall  offer 
a  brief  analysis  of  some  of  these. 

Many  have  recognized  that  the  classical  Greek  con- 
struction, as  illustrated  in  the  Doric  temple,  expresses 
a  fine  equilibrium  between  the  upward  and  the  down- 
ward forces,  embodied  in  the  vertical  and  horizontal 
lines  respectively.  The  upward  force  is  manifest 
primarily  in  the^vertical  columns,  and  is  emphasized 
there  by  the  flutings,  the  slight  progressive  narrowing 
toward  the  top,  and  the  inward  effort  of  the  necking 
just  below  the  echinus.  The  downward  force  is  em- 
bodied in  the  horizontal  lines  of  the  lintel,  architrave, 
cornice,  and  in  the  hanging  mutules  and  guttse.  The 
two  forces  come  to  rest  in  the  abaci,  which,  as  the 


812  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

crowning  members  of  the  columns,  directly  carry  the 
weight  of  the  entire  entablature.  The  equilibrium 
between  the  horizontal  and  the  vertical  tendencies  is, 
however,  not  a  static  but  a  moving  one;  for  the  two 
opposing  forces  are  present  in  every  part  of  the  build- 
ing from  the  stylobate  to  the  ridge  of  the  triangular 
pediment.  The  downward  force  is  already  manifest 
in  the  widened  base  of  the  column,  where  it  works  in 
conjunction  with  the  inward  tendency,  and  shows  its 
effect  at  the  critical  points  at  the  top  of  the  supporting 
column  —  in  the  spreading  echinus  with  its  horizontal 
bands  beneath  and  in  the  horizontal  lines  of  the  abaci. 
The  upward  force,  on  the  other  hand,  is  continued 
right  through  the  solid  mass  of  the  entablature,  in 
the  vertical  lines  of  the  triglyphs,  in  the  iantefixes, 
and  even  to  the  very  apex  of  the  building,  where  the 
ascending  lines  of  the  triangular  pediment  meet. 
The  resulting  total  effect  is  that  of  a  perfect,  yet 
swaying  balance. 

The  aesthetic  effect  derived  from  the  interplay  of 
forces  in  the  Ionic  form  is  similar  to  that  in  the  Doric, 
only  more  delicate  and  elastic.  The  slender  columns, 
being  less  rugged  and  resistant  than  the  Doric,  seem 
to  transmit  the  weight  supported,  which  shows  itself, 
therefore,  in  the  outward  spreading  molded  base;  but 
this  apparent  lack  of  strength  in  the  column  is  com- 
pensated for  by  the  elastic  energy  in  the  coiled  spring 
of  the  volutes,  upon  which,  with  the  slight  mediation 
of  a  narrow  band,  the  entablature  rests.  Here  most 
of  the  upward  energy  of  the  Ionic  form  is  concentrated ; 
for  although  the  dentils  of  the  frieze  perform  the 
function  of  the  triglyphs,  they  are  too  small  to  do  it 


Architecture  313 

effectively;  the  style  lacks,  therefore,  the  gentle 
harmonizing  of  forces  all  over,  characteristic  of  the 
Doric,  and  evinces  instead  a  clean-cut  elastic  tension 
at  a  given  point.  This  effect  is,  however,  somewhat 
softened  by  the  breaking  up  of  the  downward  force  of 
weight  by  means  of  the  recessed  divisions  of  the  arch- 
itrave. In  the  Corinthian  capital,  which  has  the  same 
general  feeling  as  the  Ionic,  the  elastic  tension  is  still 
further  diminished  through  the  renewed  emphasis  on 
the  mediating  abacus,  the  reduction  of  the  size  of  the 
volutes,  and  the  overhanging  floral  carvings.  However, 
by  reason  of  the  strength  given  by  the  bell  and  the 
projecting  outward  and  upward  curving  form  of  the 
abacus,  the  suggestion  of  weakness  in  the  Corinthian 
form  is  overcome,  but  the  gentleness  remains. 

If  the  Greek  construction  expresses  a  balance  be- 
tween the  upward  and  downward  forces,  the  arched 
forms  that  followed  express  the  victory  of  the  upward. 
In  the  arch  the  upward  force,  instead  of  being  arrested 
where  the  support  meets  the  mass  to  be  carried,  is 
continued  throughout  the  mass  itself.  Of  the  two 
chief  types  of  arches,  the  round  and  the  pointed,  each 
has  a  specific  feeling.  We  shall  study  the  round  form 
first,  where  the  vertical  tendency  is  indeed  victorious, 
but  only  through  reconciliation  and  compromise. 

In  the  round  arch  all  four  forces  are  beautifully 
expressed.  The  upward  is  manifest,  first,  in  the 
vertical  pier,  which  acts  very  much  as  the  column 
does,  and,  in  Roman  work,  was  often  replaced  by  the 
column.  The  opposing  downward  force  is  expressed 
in  the  horizontal  upper  bound  of  the  arch  and  in  the 
line  of  the  impost,  also  horizontal,  which  breaks  the 


314  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

vertical  line  and  so  marks  the  place  where  the  two 
forces  come  into  sharpest  conflict.  In  this  conflict, 
the  vertical  is  victorious ;  for,  instead  of  being  stopped 
by  the  impost,  it  is  carried  up  throughout  the  entire 
construction  by  means  of  the  upward  and  inward 
curving  of  the  arch.  The  very  curve  of  the  arch  shows, 
however,  that  the  victory  is  not  absolute;  for  its 
circular  form  is  obviously  determined  as  a  compromise 
between  an  inward  centripetal  force,  moving  upward 
and  diminishing  the  breadth  of  the  arch  to  a  mere 
point  at  its  apex,  and  an  outward  centrifugal  force, 
gradually  spreading  the  arch  downward  until  it  reaches 
its  greatest  breadth  at  the  impost,  where  it  is  arrested 
by  the  opposing  vertical  force  in  the  pier.  To  the 
historical  imagination,  the  round  arch  seems,  therefore, 
to  express  the  genial  classical  idea  of  a  control  by  the 
higher  nature  which  nevertheless  did  no  violence  to 
the  demands  of  the  lower.  In  the  spherical  dome  the 
effect  is  the  same,  only  the  interplay  of  forces  operates 
in  three  dimensions  instead  of  two. 

When  arches  are  superposed,  the  upward  movement 
proceeds  in  stages,  beginning  anew  at  each  horizontal 
division  of  the  wall  space.  The  use  of  entablatures  ap- 
plied to  the  wall  and  of  engaged  columns,  common  in 
Roman  work,  seems  to  involve  an  attempt  at  a  fusion 
of  two  contradictory  styles,  and  is  usually  condemned 
as  such.  This  contradiction  can  be  solved,  however, 
by  viewing  the  entablatures  as  mere  weightless  lines 
of  division  of  the  wall,  usually  marking  off  the  different 
stories,  and  by  viewing  the  columns  in  a  similar  fashion 
as  having  no  supporting  function  —  which  is  actually 
the  case  —  and  as  simply  serving  the  purpose  of  framing 


Architecture  315 

the  arches.  At  most  they  merely  indicate  the  direc- 
tion of  the  chief  contending  forces,  —  the  parallel 
lintels  signalizing  the  force  of  weight,  and  the  vertical 
columns,  standing  one  upon  the  other,  pointing  the 
movement  of  the  upward  force.  They  have,  therefore, 
a  pictorial  rather  than  a  dynamic  significance. 

Differences  of  feeling  in  arched  forms  depend  upon 
the  relative  height  of  arches  and  supporting  piers  and 
columns.  The  vertical  effect  is  strongly  emphasized 
when  the  latter  are  relatively  high,  while  the  effect  of 
weight  is  increased  in  flattened  arches,  which  for  this 
reason  are  especially  appropriate  for  crypts  and  prison 
entrances.  Interesting  complications  are  introduced 
in  arcades  or  intersecting  vaults,  where  a  single  column 
serves  as  a  support  for  two  or  more  arches ;  for  there 
the  vertical  force  is  divided,  flowing  in  different  di- 
rections in  the  little  triangular  piece  of  wall  between, 
or  along  the  ribs  of  the  vaults.  Something  similar 
occurs  in  the  Byzantine  dome  on  pendentives,  only 
instead  of  supporting  the  horizontal  weight  of  a  gallery 
or  a  vault,  the  triangular  pendentives  meet  the  outward 
thrust  of  a  superposed  dome. 

In  Renaissance  architecture  and  the  modern  classical 
revivals,  where  Greek  and  Roman  styles  are  freely 
adapted  to  novel  modes  of  life  and  purpose,  no  essen- 
tially new  form  was  added  to  architectural  speech. 
There  were  combinations  of  old  forms  into  more  com- 
plex structures,  but  no  new  important  elements.  The 
most  outstanding  novelty  is  perhaps  the  reversed  re- 
lation between  the  whole  and  the  parts.1  In  the 
classic  styles,  whether  arched  or  Greek,  the  whole  is 

1  See  P.  Frankl,  Die  Entwicklungsphasen  der  neueren  Baukunst,  1914. 


316  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

built  up  of  the  parts  additively;  each  is  a  relatively 
independent  center  of  energy  complete  in  itself;  first 
the  columns,  then  the  architrave,  frieze,  and  cornice, 
then  the  pediment;  or  first  one  row  of  arches,  then 
another  row  on  top  of  this,  and  so  on.  Coordination 
is  the  governing  principle.  But  in  the  modern  adapta- 
tions, even  where  coordination  rather  than  subordi- 
nation rules  in  the  pictorial  sphere,  the  whole  is  first 
dynamically  and  the  parts  are  secondary.  In  the 
typical  Renaissance  facade,  for  example,  the  arches  of 
the  windows  are  rather  openings  in  the  walls  than 
supporting  members.  They  are  centers  of  little  eddies 
of  force,  rather  than  independent  parts  of  the  main 
determining  stream  of  energy.  The  wall  rises  as  a 
whole  to  its  heavy  overhanging  cornice,  despite  the 
horizontal  divisions  marking  the  stories.  There  are, 
however,  important  differences  between  the  various 
modern  types ;  the  earlier  Renaissance  forms,  for 
example,  keeping  closer  to  the  antique  than  the  later 
Baroque  and  Rococo. 

The  complete  triumph  of  the  vertical  tendency, 
foreshadowed  in  the  Roman,  was  proclaimed  in  Gothic 
architecture  in  the  use  of  the  pointed  arch.  For  in 
the  round  arch  the  vertical  has  not  conquered  after 
all;  the  horizontal  is  still  active  there,  even  to  the 
apex  of  the  arch,  where  the  tangential  line  is  parallel 
to  the  earth,  the  line  of  weight.  But  in  the  pointed 
style  the  victory  of  the  vertical  is  clearly  decisive,  — 
the  upward  and  inward  forces,  by  elongating  and 
narrowing  the  curve  of  the  arch  to  a  point,  have  domi- 
nated the  downward  and  outward.  The  great  height 
of  the  piers,  the  gabled  roofs,  the  ribs  of  the  vaults 


Architecture  317 

the  pointed  form  of  the  windows,  the  towers,  spires, 
and  pinnacles,  —  all  proclaim  it.  Yet  this  victory 
does  not  occur  without  opposition;  for  the  higher 
the  vaulting,  the  greater  the  weight  to  be  carried; 
the  greater,  therefore,  the  outward  thrust,  which  had 
to  find  its  expression  and  its  stay  in  the  buttress.  But 
even  the  buttress,  although  it  bears  witness  to  the  out- 
ward and  horizontal  force  of  weight,  was  neverthe- 
less so  fashioned  with  its  gable  and  pinnacle,  or  its 
own  arched  form,  as  to  aid  the  upward  movement. 
The  thinness  of  walls  and  partitions,  and  the  piercing 
of  these  with  arches  and  windows,  by  lightening  the 
force  of  weight,  also  contributed  to  increase  the  vertical 
movement.  At  sight  of  a  true  Gothic  cathedral,  we 
feel  ourselves  fairly  lifted  off  the  ground  and  rushed 
upward. 

In  thinking  of  the  beauty  of  architecture,  we  are 
all  too  apt  to  consider  the  exterior  exclusively,  for- 
getting that  the  inside  of  a  building,  where  we  live,  is 
even  more  important  practically,  and  is  capable  of  at 
least  as  great  an  aesthetic  effect. 

The  characteristic  aesthetic  effect  of  the  interior 
is  a  function  of  the  inclosed  space,  the  volume,  not 
of  the  inclosing  walls  taken  singly.  The  walls  are 
only  the  limits  of  this  space,  they  are  not  the  space 
itself.  Of  course,  the  walls  within  have  their  own 
beauty,  of  surface  and  pervading  energy,  but  this  does 
not  differ  markedly  from  that  of  the  walls  seen  from 
the  outside,  and  what  we  have  established  for  the  one 
holds  for  the  other.  But  the  beauty  of  the  inclosed 
space  is  something  entirely  new. 

In  itself,  however,  mere  volume  of  space  is  no  more 


318  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

aesthetic  than  mere  bounding  line  or  surface ;  in  order 
to  become  beautiful,  it  must  become  alive.  But  how 
can  space  —  the  most  abstract  thing  in  the  world  — 
become  alive?  By  having  the  activities  which  it  in- 
closes felt  into  it.  Just  as  our  bodies  are  felt  to  be 
alive  because  our  activities  express  themselves  there, 
so  our  rooms,  because  we  live  and  move  within  them. 
As  we  enter  a  cathedral  and  look  down  the  long  aisle, 
the  movement  of  our  eyes  inevitably  suggests  the  move- 
ment of  our  bodies ;  or,  as  we  look  up  and  our  eyes 
follow  the  ribs  of  the  vaulting,  it  is  as  if  we  ourselves 
were  borne  aloft ;  in  the  imagination  we  move  through 
the  open  spaces ;  and  since  we  do  not  actually  move, 
we  locate  our  impulses  to  movement,  not  in  our  bodies, 
but  in  the  space  through  which  we  take  our  imagined 
flight.  Every  object  suggests  movement  to  it,  and  we 
fill  the  intervening  space  with  this  imagined  move- 
ment, provided  only  we  stay  our  activities  and  give 
time  for  the  imagination  to  work  its  will.  Thus  all 
space  may  become  alive  with  the  possibilities  of  move- 
ment which  it  offers. 

The  aesthetic  effects  of  volume  vary  chiefly  accord- 
ing to  size  and  shape.  In  order  to  be  appreciated, 
these  effects  must  in  general  be  somewhat  striking; 
otherwise  they  pass  unnoticed,  and  we  simply  take  the 
interiors  of  our  buildings  as  matters  of  course. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  an  impression  of  vastness 
can  be  secured  by  inclosing  a  relatively  small  space. 
A  square,  like  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  or  even  the 
inside  of  a  cathedral,  produces  a  feeling  of  size  almost, 
if  not  quite,  as  great  as  an  open  prairie  or  sea.  The 
reason,  I  suppose,  is  that  an  inclosed  space  offers 


Architecture  319 

definite  points  as  stimuli  and  goals  for  suggested  move- 
ments. As  we  imaginatively  reach  out  and  touch  these 
points,  we  seem  to  encompass  their  distance ;  and  the 
volume  of  our  own  bodies  seems  to  be  magnified  ac- 
cordingly. The  boundaries  of  the  space  become  a 
second  and  greater  integument.  This  is  of  decisive 
importance;  for  the  aesthetic  appreciation  of  size  is 
relative  to  an  appreciation  of  the  size  of  our  own  bodies  ; 
in  nature  itself  there  is  nothing  either  large  or  small. 
Along  with  the  sense  of  vastness  goes  a  sense  of  free- 
dom ;  the  one  is  the  aesthetic  experience  resulting  from 
the  imaginative  reaching  of  the  goal  of  a  movement, 
the  other  is  the  feeling  of  the  imagined  movement 
itself. 

When,  on  the  other  hand,  an  inclosure  is  small, 
as  in  the  case  of  a  cell,  and  especially  when  the  ceiling 
or  vault  is  low,  as  in  a  crypt,  it  feels  ;cabined  and  con- 
fined, because  our  own  possibilities  of  movement  are 
restricted.  In  order  to  avoid  this  feeling,  if  a  space  is 
limited  in  one  direction,  it  must  be  free  in  another; 
if  narrow,  it  must  be  long ;  if  small  in  plan,  it  must  be 
high,  as  in  a  tower. 

i  The  form  of  an  inclosed  space  is  also  expressive. 
There  are  two  chief  types,  the  longitudinal  and  the 
radial;  but  since  these  may  exist  either  in  plan  or  in 
elevation,  four  possibilities  result :  the  longitudinal- 
horizontal,  as  in  an  aisle;  the  longitudinal-vertical,  as 
in  a  tower;  the  radial-horizontal,  illustrated  by  every 
equilateral  plan  —  triangle,  square,  regular  polygon, 
and  above  all,  the  most  perfect  form  of  this  type,  the 
circle ;  and  finally,  the  radial-vertical,  of  which  domed 
spaces,  like  the  Pantheon  or  St.  Paul's,  are  examples. 


320  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

The  terms  used  to  designate  them,  together  with  the 
examples,  afford  a  good  idea  of  what  these  space  forms 
are,  making  further  description  unnecessary.  It  is 
interesting  to  observe  how  different  the  expression 
of  the  square  and  the  triangle  is  when  they  determine 
the  plan  of  an  inclosed  space  from  what  it  is  when  they 
are  the  shapes  of  walls.1  In  the  case  of  the  latter,  ac- 
cording to  the  analysis  which  we  have  given  of  them, 
the  figures  represent  an  interplay  of  antagonistic 
horizontal  and  vertical  forces,  about  an  axis  drawn 
perpendicular  to  the  midpoint  of  the  base  line ;  while 
as  plans  they  express  forces  homogeneous  in  kind 
radiating  from  their  centers.  The  feeling  of  longi- 
tudinal forms  is  one  of  continued  movement,  forward 
or  upward  as  the  case  may  be;  when  the  distance 
is  very  great,  the  feeling  is  of  infinity,  either  of  vista, 
as  in  an  aisle,  or  of  height,  as  in  a  tower,  for  even  when 
the  point  at  the  end  is  clearly  seen  and  known,  we  con- 
tinue it  in  the  imagination.  The  radial  forms,  on  the 
other  hand,  even  when  the  axes  are  very  long,  express 
completeness  and  security,  for  no  matter  how  far  we 
go  in  any  one  direction,  we  have  to  proceed  along  a  line 
which  brings  us  back  to  our  starting  point ;  in  follow- 
ing to  the  top  the  movement  of  the  curved  line  of  a 
dome  or  an  apse,  the  continuation  of  the  same  line 
carries  us  down  on  the  other  side  to  a  point  correspond- 
ing to  the  one  from  which  we  set  out;  if  we  wander, 
we  return  home. 

With  reference  to  the  division  of  interiors  into  parts, 
the  same  two  types  are  exemplified  which  we  found 

1  Compare  Fritz  Hoeber :  Systematik  der  Architekturproportionen,  II, 
B,a. 


Architecture  321 

in  studying  the  visual  and  the  dynamic  aspects  of 
buildings.  Either  the  parts  of  the  interior  space  are 
clearly  marked  off  from  each  other,  and  the  perception 
of  the  whole  which  they  constitute  is  reached  by  a 
process  of  summation  ;  or  else,  to  one  standing  within, 
the  space  is  first  perceived  as  a  whole,  and  its  parts, 
lacking  clear  definition,  are  perceived  subsequently. 
In  the  former  type,  the  parts  are  of  pronounced  in- 
dividuality, and  the  whole  is  their  free  and  joint  work ; 
in  the  latter,  the  parts  are  merged,  and  tend  to  be  lost 
in  the  whole.  These  two  possibilities  exist  whether 
the  space  be  of  radial  or  longitudinal  form.  In 
general,  the  classical  styles  lend  themselves  to  the 
coordinate  type  of  division  of  the  interior,  while  the 
later  styles  favor  the  subordination  of  the  parts  to  the 
whole. 

The  other  factors  in  the  beauty  of  architecture,  be- 
sides the  expression  of  the  forces  resident  in  its  forms, 
can  receive  only  scant  notice  from  us.  Among  these 
is  light  —  its  admission,  exclusion,  and  diffusion.  A 
house  with  ample  windows  flooded  with  sunshine 
shares  the  feeling  of  an  open  day ;  a  cathedral,  dimly 
lighted,  stimulates  a  mood  of  brooding  mystery  and 
meditation,  like  some  dark  forest.  Another  factor  is 
color.  Color  plays  a  double  part  in  architecture : 
first,  to  enliven  the  neutral  tones  of  certain  materials ; 
and  second,  to  impart  specific  moods.  It  was  no 
barbaric  taste,  but  a  keen  feeling  for  life  and  warmth 
that  induced  the  Greeks  to  paint  their  temples ;  and 
without  their  rose  windows,  Gothic  cathedrals  are 
like  faces  from  which  the  glow  of  life  is  departing.  The 
different  colors  have  the  same  feelings  in  architecture 


322  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

that  they  have  in  painting.  The  reds  and  purples  of 
ecclesiastical  stained  glass  stimulate  the  passion  of 
adoration,  the  blues  deepen  it,  and  the  yellows  seem 
to  offer  a  glimpse  of  heavenly  bliss.  Sound,  its  presence 
or  its  absence,  is  another  factor  in  architectural  ex- 
pression :  the  quiet  of  the  church  in  contrast  with  the 
noise  of  the  busy  street  outside,  the  peal  of  the  organ, 
or  the  chorus  of  young  voices.  Although  architecture 
is  a  spatial  art  and  music  a  temporal  art,  they  never- 
theless go  well  together  because  the  emotions  aroused 
by  both  are  vague  and  voluminous,  and  the  sounds, 
reverberating  from  the  walls  and  filling  the  inclosed 
spaces,  seem  to  fuse  with  them.  Ornamental  carving 
performs  a  diversifying  and  enlivening  function  similar 
to  that  of  color.  So  long  as  its  lines  follow  those  of  the 
architectural  forms,  it  may  well  be  rich  and  elaborate. 
It  is  fitting,  moreover,  that  buildings  designed  to  be 
houses  of  the  gods  should  contain  their  images,  and 
that  the  same  spirit  that  expresses  itself  in  playful 
lines  should  become  embodied  in  griffin  and  gargoyle. 
Finally,  erected  in  the  open,  with  no  shelter  or  en- 
framement,  a  building  is,  in  large  measure,  a  part  of 
nature  and  possesses  something  of  the  beauty  of  nature. 
Rooted  to  one  place  like  a  tree,  it  shares  the  beauty  of 
its  site,  and  responds  to  the  ever  varying  effects  of 
light  and  shadow,  rain  and  mist  and  snow. 

The  abstract  beauty  of  architecture  can  be  under- 
stood without  any  knowledge  of  the  purposes  of  build- 
ings. A  Hindu  who  knows  nothing  of  our  civilization 
cannot  fail  to  be  responsive  to  Notre  Dame,  any  more 
than  we  can  fail  to  admire  the  beauty  of  Taj  Mahal. 
The  very  simplest  architectural  forms,  like  the  pyra- 


Architecture  323 

micls  or  the  Washington  monument,  provided  they 
are  of  sufficient  size  and  mass,  speak  an  eloquent 
language  which  is  immediately  understood.  And  the 
content  of  their  speech  is  not  so  abstract  as  might  be 
judged  from  our  previous  studies  of  it;  for  in  archi- 
tecture, as  in  music,  concrete  emotions  and  sentiments 
flow  into  the  channel  cut  by  the  form.  Longing,  as- 
piration, and  mystery  have  universally  been  felt  into 
a  form  pointing  skyward;  and  the  feeling  of  incom- 
pleteness has  been  lost,  and  security  regained,  in  an 
overarching  dome. 

There  is,  however,  this  difference  between  archi- 
tecture and  music.  In  music,  the  emotional  content 
is  purely  personal ;  while  in  architecture,  it  may  be- 
come social  and  historical.  Architectural  purposes  are 
all  social :  the  purposes  of  a  family,  a  nation,  a  cult. 
And  the  purposes  of  the  greatest  of  buildings  —  of 
those  which  serve  the  nation  and  religion  —  are  also 
historical ;  about  them  gather  the  traditions  of  a  com- 
munity. Centers  of  the  life  of  a  people,  created  by 
it  and  enduring  with  it,  they  become  its  symbols ;  or 
outlasting  it,  memorials  and  witnesses  to  it.  The 
vague  emotions  aroused  by  the  architectural  forms  are 
pointed  and  enriched  by  this  spirit :  the  vastness, 
seclusion,  magnificence,  mystery,  and  aspiration  of 
the  Gothic  cathedral  become  associated  with  the  life 
of  the  medieval  Catholic  church;  the  fine  balance, 
clarity,  and  simplicity  of  the  Greek  temple  with  the 
best  in  Greek  culture.  This  interpretation  of  a  build- 
ing in  terms  of  its  purpose  and  history  is  necessary  to 
a  complete  esthetic  appreciation.  Without  it,  a  build- 
ing may  have  many  beauties,  all  the  beauties  which 


324  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

we  have  analyzed  ;  but  they  are  all  separate,  and  there 
is  no  beauty  of  the  whole.  It  is  the  life  which  the  many 
parts  and  aspects  serve  that  makes  them  into  one. 

I  shall  close  this  chapter  with  a  brief  discussion  of 
architectural  composition.  The  unity  of  a  building 
is  constituted  primarily  by  the  necessary  adjustment 
of  part  to  part  which  makes  possible  the  life  that  it 
incloses.  How  the  parts  serve  this  purpose  is  not 
immediately  evident  to  intuition ;  nor  can  it  be ;  yet 
it  should  be  intelligible  to  a  thoughtful  study.  The 
knowledge  thus  gained  may  then  enter  into  an  im- 
aginative vision,  for  which  the  building  will  seem  like 
an  organism  pulsing  with  life. 

This  purposive  unity  cannot  well  be  secured  with- 
out spatial  contiguity ;  here,  as  in  sculpture,  a  unified 
life  demands  a  unified  material.  Yet  sometimes  de- 
tached structures  belong  together  functionally,  and 
may  be  felt  as  one  aesthetically,  provided  they  are 
similar  in  design  and  some  one  of  them  is  dominant; 
otherwise,  each  claims  to  be  a  distinct  individual,  and 
aesthetic  rivalry  is  the  result. 

Functional  unity,  although  necessary,  is  not  suf- 
ficient for  aesthetic  unity ;  in  addition,  there  must  be 
formal  unity  —  design,  composition.  To  study  this 
adequately  would  require  a  separate  treatise,  which 
has  not  yet  been  written,  so  far  as  I  know,  with  any- 
thing approaching  philosophical  depth  and  complete- 
ness ;  but  for  our  plan  it  will  be  sufficient  to  show  how 
the  general  principles  of  aesthetic  form  are  illustrated 
in  architecture;  and  because  of  the  perspicuity  of 
things  spatial,  these  principles  are  nowhere  else  so 
lucidly  manifest. 


Architecture  325 

Since  architecture  is  a  spatial  art,  unity  in  variety 
is  chiefly  a  matter  of  harmony  and  balance  rather  than 
of  evolution,  and  of  these  harmony  is  perhaps  the  most 
conspicuous.  Harmony  is  secured  in  many  ways. 
First,  by  giving  the  whole  building  or  parts  of  the  build- 
ing a  simple  geometrical  form  readily  perceived,  — 
for  example,  the  cruciform  plan  of  many  Gothic 
cathedrals,  the  oblong  plan  and  oblong  surmounted  by 
a  triangle  in  the  fagade  of  the  Greek  temple,  the 
octagonal  shape  of  a  Renaissance  chapel.  A  higher 
degree  of  harmony  is  obtained  when  the  same  shape  is 
repeated  throughout  the  various  parts  of  the  build- 
ing, —  the  cylinder  in  the  columns,  the  triangle  or 
semicircle  in  the  arches  and  gables.  A  step  further 
is  taken  in  the  same  direction  when  the  different 
similar  parts  are  all  of  the  same  size,  as  in  the  Greek 
temple,  where  the  columns  are  all  of  one  size,  and 
similar  parts  of  columns  of  equal  size,  and  the  metopes 
and  triglyphs  likewise. 

A  more  complex  type  of  harmony,  since  it  admits 
of  greater  variety,  is  proportionality.  Proportionality 
may  be  of  various  kinds.  It  may  be  merely  the  exist- 
ence of  a  definite  numerical  relation  between  the 
dimensions  of  single  parts,  or  the  areas  of  various  parts, 
of  a  building.  This,  in  turn,  may  be  either  a  simple 
arithmetical  relation,  such  as  exists  between  the  parts 
of  a  Greek  fagade,  each  being  some  simple  multiple 
of  the  unit  or  module;  or  a  more  complex  relation 
like  the  Golden  Section,  where  the  smaller  is  to  the 
larger  dimension  as  the  larger  is  to  the  sum  of  both ; 
or  like  that  which  obtains  when  different  parts  form  a 
geometrical  series,  where  each  is  smaller  or  larger  than 


326  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

the  preceding  by  some  fraction  of  the  latter.  The 
relation  between  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  fagade 
of  the  Ducal  Palace  in  Florence  illustrates  the  Golden 
Section ;  the  heights  of  the  stories  of  the  Peller  House 
in  Nuremberg  form  a  geometrical  series.  This  type 
of  harmony  is  most  complete  when  the  proportion  be- 
tween the  dimensions  of  the  different  parts  is  the  same 
as  that  of  the  whole  building,  —  by  the  ancients  called 
concinnitas  because  it  produces  a  feeling  akin  to  that 
of  musical  harmony.  Dominance  of  a  particular  kind 
of  line,  horizontal  or  vertical,  also  gives  harmony. 
Finally,  harmony  is  secured  by  sameness  of  direction 
of  line :  the  alignment  of  windows  or  parallelism  be- 
tween moldings  dividing  the  surfaces  of  walls,  for 
example. 

The  relations,  so  seemingly  mathematical,  upon 
which  architectural  harmony  is  based,  need  not  be 
exact,  for  two  reasons :  minor  deviations  are  not  per- 
ceptible, and  even  when  perceptible,  they  give  to  the 
whole  a  feeling  of  life.  Our  experience  with  living 
things  has  taught  us  that,  despite  their  orderliness, 
there  is  no  exact  mathematical  regularity  in  their 
proportions;  hence  forms  which  cannot  be  precisely 
formulated  are  better  fitted  to  symbolize  life  to  us 
than  the  rigidly  geometrical.  The  same  experience 
has  taught  us  that  the  curvilinear  forms  are  closer  to 
life  than  the  angular;  hence  again  the  tendency,  for 
aesthetic  purposes,  to  introduce  minute  departures 
from  the  plumb-line  and  rule.  There  is,  however,  a 
type  of  life  specifically  human,  the  life  of  reason,  which 
is  best  symbolized  by  mathematical  relations ;  hence 
the  Greeks,  and  all  those  who  have  folio  wed  the  classical 


Architecture  327 

ideal,  all  who  have  had  a  passion  for  reason,  have  felt 
the  circle  and  the  square,  and  every  other  exact  em- 
bodiment of  clarity  and  intelligence,  to  be  beautiful. 
In  no  other  art  has  the  passion  for  the  intelligible  been 
so  perfectly  expressed  as  in  classical  architecture. 

Next  in  importance  to  harmony  as  a  mode  of  unity 
in  variety  in  architecture  is  balance.  Balance  im- 
plies emphatic  variety,  or  contrast.  One  mode  of 
balance,  that  between  the  upward  and  the  downward 
tendencies,  we  have  already  discussed.  There  is  an- 
other mode,  similar  to  that  which  exists  in  painting 
and  sculpture,  the  balance  between  the  right  and  left 
members  of  a  building.  In  order  that  this  type  of  bal- 
ance may  be  appreciated,  there  must  be  some  axis  or 
line  of  mediation  between  the  parts,  from  which  the  op- 
posing tendencies  take  their  start ;  otherwise  we  view  the 
parts  together,  instead  of  in  opposition.  For  example, 
there  is  balance  between  two  wings  of  a  building  which 
are  separated  by  some  central  member  or  link ;  balance 
between  the  aisles  of  a  church  on  either  side  of  the 
nave ;  balance  between  the  sets  of  three  columns  right 
and  left  of  the  door  in  the  Greek  hexastyle  temple. 
Such  cases  of  symmetry  between  equal  right  and  left 
parts  are  the  simplest  examples  of  balance;  but  there 
are  other,  more  complex  types.  For  example,  the 
parts  may  be  unequal,  yet  balance  nevertheless,  pro- 
vided their  inequality  is  compensated  for  by  some 
enrichment  of  design  or  ornament  in  the  lesser  part. 
Or  again,  there  may  be  a  balance  between  contrasting 
shapes,  such  as  the  square  and  the  triangle,  when  they 
make  an  equal  claim  upon  the  attention. 

Although,  since  architecture  is  a  static  art,  evolution 


328  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

is  not  so  important  as  harmony  and  balance,  it  exists 
nevertheless.  In  a  colonnade,  as  you  look  down  it, 
with  the  height  of  the  columns  diminishing  in  per- 
spective, there  is  a  rhythmical  movement  of  eye  and 
attention  toward  the  last  column  as  a  goal.  There  is 
the  same  rhythmical  movement  in  following  the  arches 
on  either  side  of  the  nave  of  a  church  leading  to  the 
apse. 

There  is  a  rhythmical  movement  in  the  progressive 
diminution  of  the  height  of  the  stories  of  a  building, 
going  towards  the  top.  In  such  spatio-temporal 
rhythms,  the  proportional  equality  between  the  mem- 
bers corresponds  to  the  equal  intervals  in  temporal 
rhythms,  and  the  alternation  between  member  and 
intervening  space,  or  between  member  and  line  of 
division,  corresponds  to  the  alternation  between  heavy 
and  light  accents.  Last,  evolution  is  present  in  archi- 
tecture, whenever,  often  without  rhythmical  divisions, 
the  attention  is  impelled  to  move  along  lines  that  meet 
at  a  point  which  serves  as  a  climax,  as  in  all  tri- 
angular forms  where  the  lines  lead  up  to  the  apex,  — 
pointed  windows  or  arches,  towers  ending  in  belfries 
or  pinnacles. 

Dominance,  with  its  correlative,  subordination,  are 
everywhere  present  in  architecture.  In  general,  size 
and  a  central  position,  which  usually  go  together, 
determine  preeminence.  The  largest  masses  and  those 
which  occupy  a  central  position  inevitably  rule  the 
others.  The  towers  and  the  facade  dominate  the  ex- 
terior of  a  Gothic  cathedral,  the  middle  doorway  is 
superior  to  those  which  flank  it,  and  within,  the  central 
and  kii^cr  nave  dominates  the  smaller  aisles  on  either 


Architecture  329 

side.  When  there  are  many  dominant  elements,  as  is 
necessarily  the  case  in  a  large  building,  they  must  be 
unified  by  balance,  if  there  are  two,  or  by  subordina- 
tion to  one  of  them,  if  three  or  more ;  otherwise,  each 
claims  to  be  the  whole  and  the  building  falls  apart  into 
its  members.  There  cannot  well  be  three  vertical 
dominant  parts,  because  the  central  one  makes  a  claim 
to  preeminence  which  cannot  be  satisfied  without 
superiority  in  size.  A  central  member  should,  there- 
fore, either  be  made  larger  than  those  flanking  it,  or 
else  should  be  reduced  to  the  status  of  a  mere  subordi- 
nate link  between  the  others. 

In  the  horizontal  division  of  a  building  into  stories 

—  as,  for  example,  in  the  Palazzo  Farnese  near  Rome 

—  it  is  easier  for  the  prominent  parts  to  be  equal,  be- 
cause they  are  better  united  by  the  evident  contiguity 
of  their  masses,  by  their  inclosure  in  a  simple  geometri- 
cal shape,  and  enframement  between  base  and  over- 
hanging cornice.     Yet  here  also  we  observe  the  tend- 
ency to  make  the  middle  larger  or  otherwise  dominant, 
exemplified  even  in  the  building  cited,  where  the  central 
part  is  distinguished  by  the  ornamental  shield,  upon 
which  the  attention  is  focused.     When  there  are  four 
horizontal  divisions,  our  tendency  is  to  divide  them 
into  groups  of  two ;   but  unless  this  grouping  is  clearly 
marked  by  a  molding  or  other  such  device,  our  purpose 
is  defeated  because  each  of  the  two  can  itself  be  divided 
into  two  parts,  whence  we  get  the  four  parts  again, 
among   which   there   is   not   sufficient   unity.     When, 
however,  there  are  more  than  four  stories,  they  cease 
to  function  as  individuals  and  become  members  of  a 
series,  the  rhythm  of  which  creates  the  necessary  unity. 


330  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

Even  in  this  case,  however,  the  tendency  toward 
grouping  into  three  with  the  middle  dominant  persists ; 
for,  as  a  rule,  the  stories  are  divided  by  moldings  into 
three  parts,  of  which  the  central  part  is  the  largest. 
Four  equal  stories  are  difficult  because  they  at  once 
resist  an  arrangement  into  threes  and  yet  fall  short  of 
being  the  series  which  they  suggest.  When  a  series 
of  stories  is  divided  into  three  parts,  a  superior  aesthetic 
effect  is  gained  if  the  height  of  each  story  diminishes 
in  some  regular  ratio  from  the  bottom  to  the  top,  thus 
expressing  the  gradual  overcoming  of  the  downward 
force  by  the  upward,  —  the  rhythm  becomes  dynamical 
as  well  as  kinematical. 

All  good  architectural  styles  illustrate  the  principle 
of  impartiality,  which  demands  the  careful  elaboration 
of  parts.  Yet,  as  we  have  indicated,  there  are  two 
possibilities :  some  styles  are  founded  on  the  idea  of 
the  subordination  of  the  parts  to  the  whole,  and  so 
permit  of  a  less  elaborate  execution  of  details,  while 
others  are  based  on  the  idea  of  coordination  among 
the  parts  within  the  whole,  and  so  require  that  each 
part  be  vividly  clear,  distinct  from  the  others,  and 
possessed  of  a  pronounced  individual  beauty.  These 
two  types  are  exemplified  in  each  of  the  three  aspects 
of  a  building  —  the  visual,  the  dynamic,  and  the 
voluminal.  For  the  Greek  and  Roman  architecture 
and  for  that  of  the  Renaissance,  the  former  was  the 
ideal ;  while  the  latter  is  clearly  characteristic  of  the 
more  modern  forms ;  between  these  stand  the  Byzan- 
tine, Romanesque,  and  Gothic,  in  which  a  union  of 
the  two  types,  in  what  has  well  been  called  an  organic 
type,  was  attempted,  and  perhaps  achieved  in  the 


Architecture  331 

last.  The  former  has  the  feeling  of  the  mechanical, 
rational  view  of  life,  which  is  the  classical ;  the  latter 
has  the  feeling  of  the  mystical  and  organic  view,  which 
is  modern.1 

1  See  P.  Frankl,  Die  Entivicklungsphasen  der  neueren  Baukunst,  1914. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  FUNCTION  OF  ART:  ART  AND  MORALITY 

THAT  an  interest  is  innocent  and  pleasure  giving  is 
no  longer  considered  sufficient  to  justify  its  existence; 
it  must  also,  in  order  to  be  sanctioned  in  our  jealous 
and  economical  world,  prove  itself  a  beneficent  in- 
fluence upon  the  total  man  and  the  group.  For  the 
time  being  at  least,  the  day  of  laissez-faire  is  done; 
men  can  no  longer  appeal  to  their  personal  needs,  their 
inner  necessities,  or  even  their  consciences,  in  defense 
of  their  activities.  Public  opinion,  and  sometimes 
reason,  are  the  only  arbiters  of  right.  It  may  well 
happen  that,  in  a  new  age,  men  will  be  more  generous 
and  less  exacting,  once  again  recognizing  inherent 
rights  in  spontaneous  activities ;  but  that  age  is  not 
ours.  Not  even  art  can  claim  privilege;  in  vain  will 
the  artist  boast  of  his  genius  or  the  art-lover  of  his 
delights,  if  he  can  exhibit  no  pervasive  good.  It  is 
not  enough,  therefore,  that  we  should  have  described 
the  peculiar,  inward  value  of  art;  we  must  further 
establish  that  it  has  a  function  in  the  general  life. 

Three  classes  of  people,  the  puritans,  the  philistines, 
and  the  proletarians,  question  the  value  of  art  in  this 
sense.  These  classes  are,  of  course,  not  new  to  our 
civilization,  but  are  rather  perennial  types  of  human 
nature,  appearing  under  one  or  another  name  and 
guise  in  every  age.  To  the  puritan,  art  is  immoral; 

332 


Art  and  Morality  333 

to  the  philistine,  it  is  useless;  to  the  proletarian,  it  is 
a  cruel  waste. 

One  illustration  of  the  complexity  of  human  culture 
is  the  fact  that  art  has  now  been  regarded  as  the 
symbol  and  ally  of  goodness,  and  now  as  its  enemy. 
This  paradox  can,  I  think,  be  partly  explained  by 
making  a  distinction  between  the  ethical  and  the 
moral  point  of  view  regarding  conduct.  From  the 
one  point  of  view,  the  good  belongs  to  all  free,  creative 
acts  that  look  toward  the  growth  and  happiness  of 
individuals ;  from  the  other  point  of  view,  it  consists 
in  conformity  to  law,  convention,  and  custom.  It  is 
evident  that  these  two  attitudes  must  sometimes 
come  into  open  or  secret  conflict.  For  law  and  con- 
vention represent  either  an  effort  to  fix  and  stabilize 
modes  of  conduct  that  have  proved  themselves  to  be 
good  under  certain  conditions ;  or  else,  as  is  more 
often  true  than  is  admitted,  an  attempt  to  generalize 
the  good  of  some  special  class  or  type  of  men  and 
impose  it  as  a  norm  for  all ;  and  obviously  these 
efforts  will,  from  time  to  time,  be  opposed  either  to 
the  freedom  of  individuals,  or  to  their  growth,  under 
changing  conditions. 

Now  in  the  sense  defined,  the  spirit  of  art  is  funda- 
mentally ethical  and,  at  the  same  time,  fundamentally 
non-moral.  It  is  fundamentally  ethical,  for  art  is  itself 
a  freely  creative  and  happy  activity,  and  tends  to 
propagate  itself  in  spontaneity  in  other  fields ;  it  is 
an  inspiration  in  every  struggle  for  liberty  and  the  re- 
molding of  the  world.  The  artist  and  art  lover,  who 
value  the  expression  of  individuality  in  art,  cannot  fail 
to  appreciate  it  outside  of  art.  On  the  other  hand, 


334  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

the  spirit  of  art  is  fundamentally  non-moral,  for  the 
aesthetic  attitude  is  one  of  sympathy  —  an  attempt  at 
once  to  express  life  and  to  feel  at  one  with  it;  it  de- 
mands of  us  that  we  take  the  point  of  view  of  the  life 
expressed  and,  for  the  moment  at  any  rate,  refrain 
from  a  merely  external  judgment.  Through  art  we 
are  compelled  to  sympathize  with  the  aspiration 
towards  growth,  towards  happiness,  even  when  it  leads 
to  rebellion  against  our  own  standards  and  towards  what 
we  call  sin.  The  sympathy,  realism,  and  imagination 
of  art  are  antagonistic  to  conformist  morality.  By 
making  us  intimately  acquainted  with  individuals, 
art  leads  to  skepticism  of  all  general  rules. 

The  puritan,  therefore,  who  is  an  exponent  of  the 
extremest  and  narrowest  conformist  morality,  is  more 
nearly  right  in  his  interpretation  of  the  relation  be- 
tween art  and  morality  than  more  liberal  people  who, 
because  of  their  love  of  art,  seek  to  ignore  or  palliate 
the  facts.  Hence,  in  order  to  defend  art,  one  must 
reckon  seriously  with  the  puritan. 

The  puritan  is  fearful,  above  all,  of  works  of  art 
that  represent  moral  evil.  The  method  of  artistic 
representation,  which  aims  at  awakening  sympathy 
for  the  life  portrayed,  is  bound,  he  thinks,  to  demoral- 
ize both  the  artist  and  the  spectator.  But  art  is 
something  more  than  sympathy,  and  there  are  other 
aspects  of  the  aesthetic  experience  which  tend  to  render 
that  sympathy  innocuous,  even  from  the  standpoint 
of  the  puritan.  In  the  first  place,  the  sympathy  is 
usually  with  an  imagined  life  that  has  no  direct  re- 
lation to  the  will  and  gives  the  spectator  no  oppor- 
tunity to  enter  into  and  share  it  —  he  participates 


Art  and  Morality  335 

through  the  imagination,  not  through  the  senses. 
Moreover,  neither  the  mind  nor  the  will  is  a  tabula 
rasa;  no  mature  person  comes  to  a  work  of  art  with- 
out certain  habits  and  preferences  already  predeter- 
mined, which  no  mere  imagination  can  destroy,  but 
only,  if  at  all,  some  concrete  opportunity  and  temp- 
tation. Hence  men  can  lead  a  manifold  life,  partly 
in  the  imagination  and  partly  in  action,  without  any 
corruption  of  heart  or  paralysis  of  will.  In  real  con- 
duct, to  lead  a  double  life  is  demoralizing  because 
there  choices  are  exclusive  and  each  of  the  two  lives 
tends  to  interfere  with  and  spoil  the  other;  but  im- 
agination does  not  conflict  with  reality,  for  they  have 
no  point  of  contact  and  do  not  belong  to  the  same  world. 
/  In  the  second  place,  a  work  of  art  is  an  appeal  to 
mind  as  well  as  to  sympathetic  feeling.  It  is  no  mere 
stirring  of  emotion  and  passion,  but  a  means  to  insight 
into  them.  The  attitude  of  reflection  which  it  en- 
genders is  unfavorable  to  impetuous  action.  Provid- 
ing no  immediate  stimulus  to  action,  it  allows  time 
for  a  better  second  thought  to  intervene.  Even  when 
it  offers  suggestions  for  unwonted  acts,  it  furnishes  the 
spirit  and  the  knowledge  requisite  for  determining 
whether  they  will  fit  into  the  scheme  of  life  of  the 
spectator.  It  is  characteristic  of  the  puritanic  critics 
of  art,  in  their  eagerness  to  find  motives  for  condemna- 
tion, to  overlook  this  element  of  reflection. 

It  is  forgotten,  finally,  that  by  providing  an  imagina- 
tive experience  of  passion  and  adventure,  art  often 
becomes  rather  a  substitute  for  than  an  incentive  to 
them.  The  perfection  of  form,  the  deep  repose  and 
circle-like  completeness  of  the  work  of  art,  tend  to 


336  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

prevent  one  from  seeking  a  corresponding  real  ex- 
perience, which  would  have  none  of  these  qualities, 
but  perhaps  only  misery  and  wear  and  tear  instead. 
Thus  the  work  of  art  may  propagate  itself  in  a  search 
for  new  esthetic  experiences  rather  than  in  analogous 
conduct. 

To  the  artist  who  is  living  the  evil  life  which  he 
expresses,  there  can  be  even  less  danger  in  expression, 
than  to  the  spectator.  For  the  expression  is  not  the 
cause  of  his  life,  but  only  its  efflorescence.  The  roots 
of  evil  lie  deep  below  in  the  subsoil  of  instinct.  With- 
out expression,  life  would  be  much  the  same,  only 
^secret  instead  of  articulate.  The  puritan  shows  a  i 
shocking  naivete  in  thinking  that  he  can  reform  life 
by  destroying  its  utterance.  Moreover,  to  express 
life  implies  a  certain  mastery  over  it,  a  power  of  de- 
tachment and  reflection,  which  are  fundamentally 
ethical  and  may  lead  to  a  new  way  of  living. 

Every  form  of  life  has  an  inalienable  right  to  ex- 
pression. In  order  to  be  judged  fairly,  it  must  be 
allowed  to  plead  for  itself,  and  art  is  its  best  spokes- 
man. And  that  we  should  know  life  sympathetically 
is  of  practical  importance;  for  otherwise  we  shall  not 
know  how  to  change  it  or  indeed  that  it  ought  to  be 
changed  at  all.  Only  by  knowing  other  ways  of  life 
can  we  be  certain  of  the  relative  worth  of  our  own 
way ;  knowledge  alone  gives  certitude.  Without 
knowledge  we  run  the  risk  of  becoming  ruthless  de- 
stroyers of  things  which  an  intelligent  sympathy 
might  well  preserve  and  find  a  place  for  in  the  world. 

To  all  these  considerations  the  puritan  will  doubtless 
oppose  a  truth  impossible  to  deny.  Experience,  he 


Art  and  Morality  337 

will  say,  is  one,  not  many;  imagination  and  action 
are  not  separated  by  an  impassable  wall ;  things 
merely  imagined  or  dreamed,  even  when  they  do 
not  directly  issue  in  action,  may  nevertheless  influence 
conduct  through  a  slow  and  subtle  transforming  effect 
upon  the  sentiments  and  valuations  which  make  up 
its  background.  Character  can  be  maintained  only 
by  a  vigilant  and  steady  control  over  impulses  which 
are  always  threatening  rebellion ;  purity  of  mind  only 
through  the  rigid  exclusion  of  the  sensual,  luxurious, 
and  ignoble;  imaginative  sympathy  with  evil,  even 
when  sublimated  in  art,  must  necessarily  undermine 
the  one  and  becloud  the  other.  "If  thine  eye  offend 
thee,  cut  it  out  and  cast  it  from  thee." 

The  truth  which  the  puritan  announces  does  not,  I 
think,  warrant  the  inference  which  he  draws  from  it 
or  alter  the  situation  as  I  have  described  it.  For 
morality,  to  be  genuine,  must  be  a  choice;  the  good 
must  know  its  alternative  or  it  is  not  good.  Only 
those  who  already  have  a  penchant  for  sin  will  be 
corrupted  by  imaginative  sympathy  with  passion;  a 
character  that  cannot  resist  such  an  influence  is  already 
undermined.  Life  itself  is  the  great  temptation ;  how 
can  one  who  cannot  look  with  equanimity  upon  statues 
and  pictures  fail  to  be  seduced  by  live  men  and  women  ? 
If  men -can  resist  the  suggestions  that  emanate  from 
life  they  can  surely  withstand  those  that  come  from 
art.  And  mere  purity  of  mind  is  not  equal  in  value 
to  that  insight  into  the  whole  of  life  which  a  freely 
creative  art  provides.  We  wish  to  penetrate  sympa- 
thetically all  of  our  existence ;  nothing  human  shall 
remain  foreign  to  us ;  we  would  enter  into  it  all ;  there 


338  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

is  no  region  of  the  grotesque,  the  infernal,  or  the  sinful 
from  which  we  would  be  shut  out.  In  comparison 
with  the  sublimity  of  this  demand  for  the  complete 
appreciation  of  life,  the  warnings  of  a  rigorous  moralism 
seem  timorous,  and  the  sanctuary  of  purity  in  which 
it  would  have  us  take  refuge,  a  prison. 

Whatever  conflict  there  may  be  between  the  spirit 
of  art  and  conformist  morality,  there  is  none  with  a 

.  genuine  and  rational  ethics.  For  the  latter  would 
formulate  ways  of  living  suited  to  the  diversity  of 
individuals  and  sympathetic  with  their  every  impulse 
and  fancy.  It  would  impose  external  constraint  only 
where  necessary  for  the  existence  and  perpetuation  of 
social  life,  leaving  to  personal  tact,  good  will,  and 
temperance  the  finer  adjustments  of  strain.  But 
i  apart  from  aesthetic  culture,  there  can  be  no  rational 
morality,  for  that  alone  engenders  the  imaginative 

•  sympathy  with  individual  diversity  upon  which  the 
latter  rests.  Without  imaginative  sympathy  morality 
will  always  be  coarse,  ruthless,  and  expressive  of  the 
needs  and  sentiments  of  some  special  type  which  sets 
out  to  reform  or  govern  the  world.  Under  such  a 
regimen,  which  is  actual  in  every  community  devoid 
of  imagination,  virtue  must  always  remain  suspect 
and  vice  tolerable;  the  one  a  hypocrisy,  the  other  a 
secret  and  venial  indulgence,  and  nature  will  take  its 
revenge  upon  the  law  in  violent  or  perverse  compen- 
sations. Hence,  instead  of  being  a  hindrance,  art 

>  ought  to  be  a  help  to  a  rational  morality :  its  realism 
should  foster  sincerity,  its  imagination,  sympathy  and 
justice.  The  moralist  inspired  by  art  would  seek  to 
impose  upon  men  only  that  kind  of  form  and  order 


Art  and  Morality  339 

which  is  characteristic  of  art  —  one  which  respects 
the  peculiarities  of  the  material  with  which  it  works, 
and  issues  in  a  system  in  which  all  elements  freely 
participate.1 

The  philistine's  objection  to  art  is  that  it  is  useless. 
And  if  we  only  knew  what  was  really  useful,  this  would 
be  a  damning  indictment.  But,  not  being  much  given 
to  abstract  reflection,  the  philistine  is  usually  at  a  loss 
to  inform  us.  However,  by  talking  with  him,  we  can 
eventually  divine  what  he  thinks  the  useful  to  be. 
Useful  is  what  contributes  to  the  procurement  of  those 
things  which  he  and  his  congeners  value  —  material 
wealth,  power,  and  sensual  enjoyment.  Art  is  useless 
because  it  will  not  prepare  a  banquet,  build  a  bridge, 
or  help  to  run  a  business  corporation.  The  artist  is 
a  contemptible  fellow  because  he  cares  more  for  his 
art  than  for  the  things  of  the  world ;  for  whatever  the 
worldling  values  he  thinks  every  one  else  should  value. 

To  the  artist,  criticism  of  this  kind  seems  to  betray  , 
the  most  shameless  arrogance,  and  he  meets  contempt 
with  contempt.  Who  is  he  that  would  be  the  judge 
between  worldly  goods  and  beauty?  Surely  the 
philistine  is  no  competent  judge;  for  he  only  can 
judge  fairly  between  two  values  who  appreciates  both, 
and,  by  his  own  confession,  the  philistine  does  not 
appreciate  art.  Hence  the  claim  of  the  philistine 
seems  not  to  merit  consideration.  Through  his  lack 
of  sympathy  for  art,  he  puts  himself  beyond  the  possi- 
bility of  fruitful  debate.  In  this  he  is  unlike  the 

1  Compare  Schiller,  On  the  ^Esthetic  Education  of  Man,  Fourth  Letter : 
"The  civilized  man  makes  nature  his  friend,  and  honors  her  freedom,  while 
he  merely  fetters  her  caprice." 


340  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

puritan,  who  is  often  all  too  sensitive  to  beauty  for 
his  own  good  —  hence  his  alarms. 

If  the  objection  of  the  philistine  were  the  same  as 
the  proletarian's,  that  art  is  a  luxury,  a  waste  of  the 
energies  of  the  community,  which  might  better  be 
employed  in  feeding  the  hungry  and  saving  sinners, 
it  would  be  more  worthy  of  a  hearing ;  and  so  he  often 
represents  it.  But  in  this  he  is  hardly  sincere;  and 
the  appropriate  answer  is  a  tu  quoque,  the  fitting 
reply  to  every  piece  of  insincere  criticism.  Does  the 
philistine  feed  the  poor  and  save  the  sinners?  Who 
is  commonly  more  careless  of  the  workers'  needs  and 
more  cruel  to  the  fallen  in  his  self-righteous  probity? 
For  the  philistine  is  often  a  puritan.  And  who  is 
more  luxurious  than  he?  Who  consumes  more  in  his 
own  person  of  the  energies  of  the  toilers?  It  costs 
little  to  maintain  an  artist,  but  it  taxes  thousands 
to  support  the  philistine  and  his  wife.  Of  course,  in 
return,  the  worldling  performs  a  service  to  the  com- 
munity in  the  organization  of  industries,  but  many  of 
these  do  not  sustain  the  needs  of  the  masses  and  are  de- 
voted to  the  manufacture  of  luxuries  for  the  well-to-do. 

The  insincerity  of  the  philistine's  attitude  is  dis- 
closed by  his  changed  attitude  towards  the  artist 
who  acquires  fame  and  wealth  through  his  art.  For 
now  that  the  artist  shows  himself  capable  of  getting 
the  things  the  philistine  values,  the  latter  accords  him 
esteem.  Or  let  an  interest  in  art  become  fashionable, 
and  once  again  the  philistine  is  won  over. 

The  traditional  hostility  between  the  philistine  and 
the  artist  is  offensive  to  reason,  which  would  discover 
points  of  contact  and  reconciliation  between  all  atti- 


Art  and  Morality  341 

tudes.  One  apparent  place  of  meeting  might  seem 
to  be  just  the  worldling's  love  of  luxury  itself.  Luxury 
is  a  development  of  pleasure  of  sense  beyond  the 
necessary,  paralleling  the  freedom  and  refinement  of 
sensation  in  art.  There  is,  moreover,  a  certain  im- 
aginative quality  in  reputation  and  glory,  so  well- 
prized  by  the  worldling,  which,  as  we  shall  see,  is 
akin  to  the  ideality  of  art.  And  yet  both  the  imagina- 
tion and  the  luxury  of  the  worldling  are  usually  lacking 
in  one  element  essential  to  real  kinship  with  the  spirit 
of  art  —  disinterestedness.  The  worldling's  dreams  of 
glory  are  projections  of  ambition,  his  luxuries  subtle 
stimulations  of  appetite  or  instruments  of  display,  her 
self -adornment  a  fine  self -exhibition  or  coquetry.  The 
love  of  insight,  the  free  emotion,  the  enjoyment  of 
sensuous  harmonies  for  their  own  sake,  are  lacking  or 
subordinate.  Glory  and  luxury  are  too  often  mere 
masks  of  ambition  and  appetite,  and  at  best  counter- 
feits of  beauty. 

Nevertheless,  the  luxurious  developments  of  ambi- 
tion and  appetite  are  ever  on  the  verge  of  tending 
toward  the  aesthetic.  For  when  ambition  has  no 
longer  to  struggle  against  the  world  and  is  satisfied, 
the  imagination  that  served  it  may  become  free;  and 
when  appetite  is  cloyed,  the  instrumentalities  of 
sensuous  pleasure  can  find  a  new  meaning  as  beau- 
tiful. Then  the  worldling  becomes  the  patron  of  the 
artist  and  the  two  are  reconciled.  And  all  along  this 
result  was  preparing.  For  instinct  seldom  completely 
dominates  imagination  and  sensation ;  there  is  always 
some  aesthetic  freedom  in  the  self-adornment  and  dis- 
play of  the  wealthy.  The  absence  of  anxiety  may 


342  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

release  aesthetic  interests  that  would  have  died  in 
the  struggle  for  existence;  prosperity  is  often  the 
herald  of  beauty. 

The  proletarian's  criticism  of  art  is  of  unimpeachable 
sincerity,  for  when  he  talks  of  art  as  a  luxury  he  speaks 
from  the  heart  and  in  answer  to  bitter  experience  of 
want.  There  is  a  genuine  element  of  moral  indigna- 
tion in  his  feeling  that  there  must  be  something  wrong 
with  a  public  conscience  that  countenances,  even 
glorifies  extravagance,  all  the  while  that  women  slave 
and  children  die  of  underfeeding  and  neglect.  This 
feeling  is  intensified  when  he  compares  the  thousands 
paid  for  a  single  hour  of  a  prima  donna's  song  or  a 
playwright's  wit  with  his  own  yearly  wage  laboriously 
earned.  What  supreme  worth  does  art  possess  that 
it  should  be  valued  so  disproportionately? 

Yet,  sincere  as  this  complaint  is,  it  is  largely  mis- 
directed ;  for  art  is  not  the  extravagance  which  it  may 
superficially  seem  to  be.  Most  of  the  best  art  has 
been  produced  by  poor  men  who  never  dreamed  of 
the  prices  that  would  be  paid  for  their  work  when  they 
were  old  or  after  they  were  dead.  And  these  prices 
represent  no  consumption  of  the  labor  and  capital  of 
the  community,  but  only  a  transference  of  wealth 
from  one  man  to  another.  Even  when  the  artist  is 
paid  large  sums  for  his  picture  or  opera  or  play,  these 
sums  do  not  represent  their  real  cost,  but  only  what 
they  can  command  in  a  market  controlled  by  rich 
consumers.  The  real  cost  of  genuine  art  is  very  small 
-  only  enough  to  maintain  the  artist  in  freedom  for 
his  work;  for  he  would  still  produce  without  the  in- 
centive of  large  rewards.  The  seeming  extravagance 


Art  and  Morality  343 

of  art  cannot,  therefore,  be  blamed  upon  art  itself, 
but  upon  the  price  system  of  modern  capitalist  econ- 
omy. And  this,  of  course,  is  clearly  perceived  by  the 
"intellectual  proletarians,"  who  are  willing  to  accord 
to  the  artist  a  place  of  honor  as  fellow-worker  and 
"comrade,"  and  direct  their  attacks,  not  upon  him, 
but  upon  capitalism. 

There  is,  however,  a  deeper  root  to  the  proletarian's 
grievance  against  the  artist  —  the  feeling  that  the 
moral  principle  of  mutuality  is  violated  in  their  re- 
lationship. The  workman  plows  for  him,  cooks  for 
him,  builds  for  him,  spins  for  him,  but  what  does  he 
do  in  return?  He  paints  pictures,  makes  statues, 
writes  novels  or  poems  or  plays  or  sonatas  which  the 
workman  has  neither  the  leisure  nor  the  education  to 
enjoy.  The  money  paid  by  the  artist  to  the  artisan 
represents  nothing  which  the  former  rightfully  owns  or 
can  give,  but  only  a  claim  to  the  labor  of  other  men, 
enforced  by  the  system  of  wage-economy.  Of  course, 
not  only  art  but  all  speculation,  all  pure  science  and 
disinterested  historical  knowledge,  is  subject  to  this 
criticism.  And  such  criticism  is  no  longer  purely 
academic,  for  to-day  there  exist  large  masses  of  men 
in  every  community  determined  to  bring  about  a 
"world  dictatorship  of  the  proletariat"  based  on 
just  this  principle  of  mutuality  in  the  relations  of 
men.  Is  this  principle  itself  rational,  and  would  art 
survive  in  a  regime  which  embodied  it?  These,  I 
repeat,  are  no  longer  speculative,  but  intensely  prac- 
tical problems. 

Those  who  fear  for  art  in  a  society  where  the  process 
of  democratization  should  go  to  its  extreme  limit  of 


344  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

development  point  to  the  moving  picture,  the  cheap 
magazine  story  and  novel,  the  vaudeville  and  "mu- 
sical" comedy,  as  a  hint  of  what  to  expect.  These, 
they  will  say,  are  the  popular  forms  of  art,  to  the 
production  of  which  the  artist  would  have  to  devote 
his  time  and  skill  in  return  for  subsistence.  Under 
the  present  system  the  people  get  what  they  want,  but 
in  a  proletarian  state  nobody  would  be  allowed  to 
get  anything  else. 

Of  course,  as  to  what  would  happen  in  a  workers' 
republic,  were  it  ever  constituted,  we  can  only  specu- 
late; but  where  we  cannot  know,  there  hope  has  an 
equal  chance  with  fear.  We  have  the  single  example 
of  the  Russian  experiment  from  which  to  make  in- 
ferences, the  general  validity  of  which  is  seriously 
limited  by  the  peculiarities  of  the  Russian  nature 
and  situation.  But  there,  at  any  rate,  we  do  know 
that  efforts  have  been  made  to  advance  general  edu- 
cation, to  bring  the  classic  literature  within  reach  of 
the  masses,  and  to  encourage  opera  and  drama.  In 
Russia,  at  all  events,  the  leaders  of  the  revolutionary 
movement  have  sought  rather  to  destroy  what  they 
believe  to  be  a  monopoly  of  culture  than  culture  it- 
self ;  and  in  England  also  they  have  a  similar  aim. 

There  can  be  little  doubt,  I  think,  that  our  capitalist 
economy  does  promote  a  monopoly  of  culture.  Through 
their  control  of  the  market,  the  wealthy  are  able  to  bid 
up  the  prices  of  works  of  art  until  they  are  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  less  prosperous.  As  a  result,  the  best 
paintings  and  sculptures,  with  the  exception  of  those 
that  find  their  way  into  museums,  are  accumulated 
in  inaccessible  private  collections,  and  opera  and  music 


Art  and  Morality  345 

are  made  needlessly  expensive.  One  very  evil  conse- 
quence is  the  substitution  of  a  purely  pecuniary  stand- 
ard of  valuation  for  aesthetic  standards.  I  know  a 
painter  who  made  the  experiment  of  reducing  the  price 
of  his  pictures  to  twenty-five  dollars,  in  the  hope  that 
many  people  who  really  loved  art  but  were  unable  to 
pay  large  prices  would  buy  them,  and  that  thus,  by 
selling  many  of  his  pictures  at  a  low  price,  he  would 
be  able  to  make  as  much  money  as  if  he  sold  only  a 
few  at  the  prevailing  high  rates.  The  experiment 
failed  completely,  for  people  thought  that  paintings 
at  such  a  low  price  must  be  inferior,  and  even  those 
who  could  afford  to  buy  them,  would  not.  The 
painter  now  tried  the  reverse  experiment  and  raised 
the  prices  of  all  his  works,  with  much  better  success, 
for  people  reasoned  —  the  higher  the  price,  the  better 
the  picture.  But  worst  of  all,  through  the  purely 
commercial  motives  governing  those  who  undertake 
to  supply  the  people  with  works  of  art,  the  public 
taste  is  corrupted;  little  or  no  attempt  is  made  to 
educate  the  masses,  but  merely  to  give  them  anything 
that  will  entertain  them  after  a  day  of  fatiguing  labor, 
—  anything  that  will  sell.  The  demoralizing  effect  of 
commercialism  upon  artists  themselves  is  too  well 
known  to  require  more  than  a  reminder;  hasty  work 
for  the  sake  of  money  supplants  careful  work  for  the 
sake  of  beauty;  whole  arts,  like  that  of  oriental  rug 
weaving,  are  thereby  threatened  with  extinction ;  and, 
instead  of  producing  spontaneous  art  that  would  ex- 
press themselves,  people  allow  themselves  to  be  merely 
entertained  by  things  supplied  to  them,  nasty  and 
cheap  —  folk  art  disappears. 


346  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  commercial  motive  were 
eliminated,  who  can  say  what  might  not  result,  in 
each  community,  from  the  experimentation  of  men 
who  could  not  make  money  but  only  honor  and  a 
living  from  the  profession  of  providing  people  with 
interesting  ways  of  spending  their  leisure.  The  in- 
creased efficiency  of  machine  tool  work  will  inevitably 
make  possible  a  great  reduction  in  hours  of  labor,  when 
the  workers  themselves  control  industry  for  their  own 
benefit  rather  than  for  that  of  a  class  bent  on  still 
further  increasing  its  own  wealth  and  power.  It  is 
entirely  possible  that  the  leisure  of  men  will  then 
absorb  as  much  of  their  devoted  energies  as  work 
does  now,  and  that  they  will  be  educated  for  the  one 
as  well  as  for  the  other.  It  is  not  impossible  to  hope 
that,  the  machine  tool  supplanting  the  slave,  the 
commonwealth  of  workers  will  develop  as  free  and 
liberal  a  life  as  existed  among  the  citizens  of  ancient 
Greece.  Then  perhaps  each  group  will  have  its 
painters,  actors,  and  musicians  just  as  surely  as  it 
now  has  its  judges,  aldermen,  and  police. 

It  is  impossible  to  judge  what  art  might  do  for 
people  in  a  reorganized  society  by  what  it  does  for 
them  now.  Art  has  its  roots  in  interests  that  are 
well  nigh  universal.  Everybody  loves  to  dance,  to 
sing,  to  tell  a  story;  everybody  loves  either  to  paint 
or  be  painted,  to  sculpture  or  be  sculptured.  Again, 
everybody  is  at  least  potentially  sensitive  to  rhythm, 
harmony,  and  balance,  and  to  the  beauties  of  lines, 
colors,  and  tones.  It  is  not  native  incapacity,  but 
rather  a  failure  in  aesthetic  education  due  to  the  one- 
sided emphasis  on  work  rather  than  play,  industry 


Art  and  Morality  347 

rather  than  leisure,  success  rather  than  happiness, 
that  is  responsible  for  much  of  the  seeming  lack  of 
artistic  appreciation  among  the  masses.  Under  a 
different  social  system  the  people  may  come  to  recog- 
nize the  artist  as  a  fellow-worker,  elaborating  his 
products  in  exchange  for  other  desirable  things,  and 
may  accord  him  welcome  rather  than  envy. 

However,  it  will  doubtless  always  remain  true  that 
the  subtler  and  more  intellectual  types  of  art  can 
never  become  popular.  Like  higher  mathematics, 
they  will  continue  to  be  completely  intelligible  only 
to  the  few.  Yet  I  can  conceive  of  no  social  system 
likely  to  grow  out  of  modern  tendencies  that  would 
suppress  them.  The  artist  in  the  new  state  would 
have  his  leisure,  as  other  men  would,  in  which  he 
could  devote  himself  to  the  refinements  of  his  art.  It 
is  doubtful  whether  he  would  have  less  time  for  that  then 
than  he  has  now.  How  many  artists  under  our  present 
system  waste  a  large  part  of  their  lives  doing  hack 
work  of  various  kinds  to  make  a  living;  only  the 
fortunate  few  are  masters  of  themselves.  Moreover, 
under  any  social  system,  men  would  be  permitted  to 
spend  their  surplus  income  as  they  chose,  and  the  art 
lovers  of  the  future  are  as  likely  to  spend  it  for  art 
then  as  now.  Not  being  so  rich,  they  could  not  re- 
ward the  artist  so  munificently  as  some  are  rewarded 
now ;  but  even  now  most  working  artists  are  poor,  and 
the  impulse  to  art  is  independent  of  large  rewards. 
Heretical  and  unpopular  artists,  who  could  find  no 
public  backing,  would  come  to  be  supported  by  their 
own  special  clients,  as  they  are  to-day.  In  a  complex 
rational  society,  the  principle  of  mutuality  would  be 


348  The  Principles  of  .Esthetics 

transitive  rather  than  strictly  symmetrical  —  a  woman 
would  cook  for  a  machine  designer  although  she  got 
no  machine  in  return,  provided  the  designer  made 
one,  say,  for  the  shoemaker,  who  could  thus  supply  her 
with  shoes.  Just  so,  there  is  no  moral  objection  to  the 
artist's  receiving  goods  and  services  from  people  to 
whose  life  he  contributes  nothing  personally,  so  long 
as  these  people  are  compensated  by  those  whose  life 
he  does  enrich.  In  other  words,  part  of  the  reward 
which  the  art  lover  would  receive  for  the  work  he  per- 
formed would  be  paid,  not  to  himself,  but  to  the  artist 
-  art  would  be  voluntarily  supported  by  those  who 
appreciated  it.  No  complex  social  life  could  be  main- 
tained under  the  principle  of  strict  mutuality,  and 
certainly  no  system  that  undertook  to  preserve  the 
variety  and  spontaneity  of  human  interests.  Only  a 
complete  dead-level  regimentation  of  human  life  in 
accordance  with  the  average  desires  of  the  masses, 
which  is  unlikely,  would  destroy  the  more  intellectual 
and  subtle  types  of  art,  and,  by  the  same  token,  specu- 
lation and  disinterested  higher  learning.  The  higher 
culture  has  survived  many  revolutions ;  it  will  survive 
the  next,  when  it  comes. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  FUNCTION  OF  ART:  ART  AND  RELIGION 

THE  distinctive  purpose  of  art,  so  we  have  argued 
throughout  this  study,  is  culture,  the  enrichment  of 
the  spirit.  But  lovers  of  art  have  always  claimed  for 
it  more  active  and  broader  influences.  To  my  think- 
ing, most  of  such  claims,  especially  in  our  age,  like 
similar  claims  for  religion,  are  greatly  exaggerated. 
Passion,  convention,  economic  fact  in  the  largest  sense, 
practical  intelligence,  these  are  the  dominant  forces 
swaying  men,  not  beauty,  not  religion.  Indeed,  one 
who  would  compare  the  influence  of  art  upon  life  at 
the  present  time  with  its  influence  upon  primitive 
societies  might  infer  the  early  extinction  of  that  in- 
fluence altogether.  For  among  primitive  men  the 
influence  of  art  is  all-pervading.  With  them  art  is 
inseparable  from  utility  and  communal  activities, 
upon  which  it  has  an  immediate  modifying  or  strength- 
ening effect.  The  movement  of  civilization,  with  the 
exception  of  the  Greek,  mediaeval,  and  renaissance  city 
states,  has  involved  a  breaking  away  from  this  original 
unity  until,  among  ourselves,  art  is  developed  and  en- 
joyed in  isolation  from  the  rest  of  life.  Art  is  valued 
for  its  own  sake,  for  its  contribution  to  culture,  not 
for  any  further  influence  upon  life,  and  this  freedom 
has  come  to  be  part  of  its  very  meaning.  Instead  of 
being  interested  only  in  pictures  and  statues  represent- 

349 


350  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

ing  ourselves,  our  rulers,  our  gods,  or  our  neighborhood, 
we  enjoy  imitations  of  people  who  have  had  no  effect 
upon  our  lives  whatever  and  scenes  which  we  have 
never  visited,  and  we  repair  to  museums  to  see  them ; 
instead  of  employing  music  to  beautify  our  daily  life, 
we  leave  that  life  for  the  concert  hall,  where  we  shut 
ourselves  away  for  a  few  hours  of  "absolute"  musical 
experience.  Prose  literature  and  the  drama,  when 
inspired  by  contemporary  social  problems,  offer  ex- 
ceptions to  this  isolation,  for  through  their  ability  to 
express  ideas  they  can  exert  a  more  pervasive  influence. 
Although  social  problems  are  solved  in  obedience  to 
forces  and  demands  beyond  the  control  of  artists, 
literary  expression  is  effective  in  persuading  and 
drawing  into  a  movement  men  whose  status  would 
tend  to  make  them  hostile  or  indifferent,  as  in  Russia, 
where  numerous  men  and  women  of  the  aristocratic 
and  wealthy  classes  became  revolutionaries  by  reason 
of  literature.  And  yet  the  literary  arts  also  have 
acquired  a  large  measure  of  isolation  and  independ- 
ence. A  play  representing  Viennese  life  is  appreciated 
in  New  York,  a  novel  of  contemporary  manners  in 
England  is  enjoyed  in  America.  Literature  does  not 
depend  for  its  interest  upon  its  ability  to  interpret 
and  influence  the  life  that  the  reader  himself  lives; 
he  values  it  more  because  it  extends  than  because  it 
reflects  that  life.  People  decry  art  for  art's  sake,  but 
in  vain. 

The  development  of  the  relation  of  religion  to  life 
has  been  parallel  to  the  development  of  art.  Origi- 
nally, religion  penetrated  every  activity ;  now,  by  con- 
trast, it  has  been  removed  from  one  after  another  of 


Art  and  Religion  351 

the  major  human  pursuits.  Agriculture,  formerly 
undertaken  under  the  guidance  of  religion ;  science, 
once  the  prerogative  of  the  priesthood ;  art,  at  one 
time  inseparable  from  worship ;  politics,  once  governed 
by  the  church  and  pretending  a  divine  sanction ;  war, 
until  yesterday  waged  with  the  fancied  cooperation 
of  the  gods  —  even  these  are  now  under  complete 
secular  control.  To  be  sure,  there  is  some  music, 
sculpture,  painting,  and  poetry  still  in  the  service  of 
religion,  but  its  relative  proportion  is  small;  kings 
and  congresses  still  appeal  for  divine  aid  in  times  of 
crisis,  but  that  is  perfunctory ;  men  still  pray  for  rain 
during  drought,  but  without  faith.  No  one  would 
pretend  that  our  commerce  and  manufacturing  have 
any  direct  relation  to  religion.  People  still  invoke 
divine  authority  for  moral  prescriptions,  but  the 
sanctions  actually  operating  are  social  instincts  and 
fear  of  public  opinion  and  the  law.  Religion  retains  a 
direct  and  potent  influence  only  in  the  institution  of 
marriage,  the  experience  of  death,  philosophy,  and 
the  social  life  and  charities  conducted  by  the  churches. 
Yet  even  in  these  spheres  the  influence  is  declining, 
and,  so  far  as  it  persists,  is  becoming  indirect.  Civil 
and  contractual  marriage  are  slowly  supplanting  re- 
ligious marriage;  there  are  thousands  living  in  our 
large  cities  who  do  not  feel  the  need  of  the  church  to 
establish  and  cement  their  social  life;  most  philos- 
ophers disclaim  any  religious  motive  or  authority  for 
their  investigations  or  beliefs.  Only  over  death  does 
religion  still  hold  undisputed  sway. 

However,  despite  the  separation  of  religion  and  art 
from  life,  they  may  continue  to  exert  influence  upon 


352  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

it.  But,  barring  some  new  integration  of  the  sundered 
elements  of  our  culture,  which  we  may  deeply  desire 
but  cannot  predict,  this  influence  must  be  indirect 
and  subtle,  and  must  occur  independent  of  any  in- 
i  stitutional  control.  In  the  case  of  both  it  consists  in 
imparting  to  life  a  new  meaning  and  perfection,  thus 
making  possible  a  more  complete  affirmation  of  life 
and  a  freer  and  more  genial  attitude  and  conduct. 

For  unless  the  spirit  of  art  or  of  religion  is  infused 
into  life,  we  never  find  it  quite  satisfactory.  To  be 
sure,  men  sometimes  think  they  find  perfection  in 
certain  things  —  in  practical  or  moral  endeavor,  in 
love  or  in  pleasure ;  but  unless  art  or  religion  is  mixed 
into  them,  they  always  prove  to  be,  in  the  end,  dis- 
appointing. No  practical  purpose  is  ever  quite  suc- 
cessful ;  there  is  always  some  part  of  the  plan  left 
unaccomplished;  and  the  success  itself  is  only  mo- 
mentary, for  time  eventually  engulfs  it  and  forgets 
it.  Practical  life  does  not  produce  any  permanent 
and  complete  work ;  its  task  is  done  only  to  be  done 
over  again ;  every  house  has  to  be  repaired  or  torn 
down,  every  road  rebuilt ;  every  invention  is  displaced 
by  a  new  one.  This  is  true  even  on  the  higher  planes 
of  practical  life,  in  political  and  social  reconstruction. 
Certain  evils  may  be  removed,  certain  abuses  remedied, 
but  new  ones  always  arise  to  take  their  places ;  and 
even  when  the  entire  system  is  remodeled  and  men 
think  that  the  day  of  freedom  and  justice  has  dawned 
at  last,  they  find,  after  a  generation,  a  new  tyranny 
and  a  new  injustice.  The  movement  of  life  makes  it 
impossible  for  any  plan  to  long  endure.  Hence  the 
disillusion,  the  feeling  of  futility  that  so  often  poisons 


Art  and  Religion  353 

the  triumphs  of  practical  men.  And  without  the 
spirit  of  art  or  of  religion  even  love  does  not  satisfy. 
For  imagination  creates  the  perfection  of  its  object 
and,  aside  from  institutional  bonds  fast  loosening,  a 
faith  in  the  continued  growth  with  one  another  and 
with  a  child,  which  is  essentially  religious,  creates  the 
permanence  and  meaning  of  its  bond.  Love's  rap- 
tures, in  so  far  as  they  are  instinctive,  are,  of  course, 
independent  of  any  view  of  life ;  but  apart  from 
imagination  and  faith  in  one  another,  love  does  not 
keep  its  quality  or  renew  itself  in  memory,  nor  can 
it  survive  death  which  always  impends  to  destroy. 
Men  often  seek  escape  from  the  feeling  of  imperfec- 
tion in  frivolity,  but  ennui  is  the  inevitable  conse- 
quence, and  reflection  with  its  doubts  cannot  be 
stilled. 

By  contrast,  in  the  religious  experience  and  in 
beauty  men  feel  that  they  find  perfection;  hence  the 
attitude  of  self -surrender  and  joyousness  characterizing 
both.  The  abandon  of  the  spectator  who  decrees  that 
for  the  moment  his  life  shall  be  that  of  the  work  of  art, 
is  matched  in  the  mystical  experience  by  the  emotion 
expressed  in  Dante's  line,  "  In  his  will  is  our  peace." 
And  in  both  the  self-surrender  is  based  on  a  felt  har- 
mony between  the  individual  and  the  object  —  the 
beautiful  thing  appeals  to  the  senses,  its  form,  is  adapted 
to  the  structure  of  the  mind,  its  content  is  such  as  to 
win  interest  and  sympathy;  the  divine  is  believed 
to  realize  and  quiet  all  of  our  desires.  But  while  in 
beauty  we  feel  ourselves  at  home  with  the  single 
object,  in  religion  we  feel  at  rest  in  the  universe. 

When  religion  and  art  are  separated  from  the  other 


354  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

parts  of  life,  as  they  are  fast  becoming  now,  the  peculiar 
quality  of  the  experiences  which  they  offer  can  be 
rendered  universal  only  by  freely  infusing  it  every- 
where, through  faith,  in  the  case  of  the  one,  through 
imaginative  re-creation,  in  the  case  of  the  other.  The 
religious  experience  is  a  seeming  revelation  of  a  perfect 
meaning  in  life  as  a  whole;  this  meaning  must  now 
be  imparted  to  the  details  of  life.  By  a  free  act  of 
faith  the  scattered  and  imperfect  fragments  must  be 
built  into  a  purposive  unity.  The  poisonous  feeling 
of  futility  will  then  be  lost;  each  task,  no  matter 
how  petty  or  ineffectual,  will  become  momentous  as 
contributing  something  toward  the  realization  of  a 
good  beyond  our  little  existence;  and  we,  however 
lowly,  will  find  ourselves  sublime  as  instruments  of 
destiny.  There  is  nothing  vain  to  him  who  believes. 
And  if  the  believer  cannot  build  a  meaning  into  his- 
tory and  social  life  as  he  knows  them  empirically,  he 
may  extend  them  by  faith  in  a  future  life,  through 
which  his  purposes  will  be  given  the  promise  of  eter- 
nity and  the  tie  between  parents  and  children,  friends 
and  lovers  and  co-workers,  an  invincible  seriousness 
and  worth.  Being  at  peace  with  the  universe,  he 
may  be  reconciled  to  the  accidents  of  his  life  as  ex- 
pressions of  its  Will. 

The  method  of  reconciliation  through  religion  can 
well  be  understood  by  its  effect  on  the  attitude  towards 
evil.  To  one  who  has  faith  in  the  world  as  perfect, 
evil  becomes  an  illusion  that  would  disappear  to  an 
adequate  vision  of  the  Divine.  The  supposedly  evil 
thing  becomes  really  a  good  thing  —  a  necessary 
means  to  the  fulfillment  of  the  divine  plan,  either  in 


Art  and  Religion  355 

the  earthly  progress  of  humanity  or  in  the  future  life ; 
or  if  the  more  mystical  types  of  religion  provide  the 
starting  point,  where  individuality  itself  is  felt  to  be 
an  illusion,  a  factor  in  the  self-realization  of  the  Abso- 
lute. The  evil  thing  remains,  of  course,  what  it  was, 
but  the  interpretation,  and  therefore  the  attitude 
towards  it,  is  transformed.  Pain,  sorrow,  and  mis- 
fortune become  agents  for  the  quickening  of  the  spirit, 
death  a  door  opening  to  unending  vistas. 

The  attitude  of  faith  is  not  embodied  in  dogmatic 
and  speculative  religious  doctrines  alone;  for  it  finds 
expression  in  other  beliefs  —  in  progress,  in  the  possi- 
bility of  a  sunny  social  order,  in  the  perpetuity  of 
human  culture,  in  the  peculiar  mission  of  one's  race 
or  country.  Such  beliefs  are  expressions  primarily  of 
faith,  not  of  knowledge;  like  religion,  they  are  in- 
terpretations of  life  based  on  aspiration,  not  on  evi- 
dence ;  and  through  them  men  secure  the  same  sort 
of  reenforcement  of  motive,  courage,  and  consolation 
that  they  derive  from  the  doctrines  called  religious. 
But  the  sphere  of  faith  is  wider  even  than  this;  the 
almost  instinctive  belief  .that  each  man  has  in  his 
own  longevity  and  success,  the  trust  in  the  permanence 
of  friendship  and  love,  the  confidence  in  the  unique 
value  of  one's  work  or  genius  —  these  are  also  convic- 
tions founded  more  on  desire  than  on  knowledge,  and 
may  function  in  the  same  way  as  religion  in  a  man's 
life. 

The  re-affirmation  of  life  which  art  may  inspire  is 
independent  of  any  belief  or  faith  about  the  world. 
It  occurs  rather  through  the  application  to  the  objects 
and  incidents  of  life  of  a  spirit  and  attitude  borrowed 


356  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

from  artistic  creation  and  appreciation.  It  is  a  gen- 
eralization of  the  aesthetic  point  of  view  to  cover  life 
as  well  as  art;  an  attempt  to  bring  beauty  from  art 
into  the  whole  of  life.  Although  to-day  works  of  art 
themselves  are  severed  from  direct  contact  with  the 
rest  of  life,  something  of  the  intention  and  method  of 
the  artist  may  linger  and  be  carried  over  into  it.  Art, 
the  image  of  life,  may  now  serve  as  a  model,  after 
which  the  latter,  in  its  turn,  will  be  patterned. 

The  spirit  of  art  has  two  forms,  one  constructive, 
the  other  contemplative,  and  both  may  be  infused  into 
life.  When  the  former  is  put  there,  each  act  and  task 
is  performed  as  if  it  were  a  work  of  art.  This  involves 
"throwing  the  whole  self"  into  it,  not  only  thought 
and  patience,  but  enthusiasm  and  loving  finish,  even 
as  the  artist  puts  them  into  his  work,  so  that  it  be- 
comes a  happy  self-expression.  Nothing  shall  inter- 
fere with  or  mar  it,  or  spoil  its  value  when  recalled. 
The  imperfection  and  transiency  of  the  result  are  then 
forgotten  in  the  inspiration  of  endeavor ;  and  the  work 
or  act,  no  matter  how  insignificant,  becomes  perfect 
as  an  experience  and  as  a  memory.  The  generations 
may  judge  it  as  they  will,  but  as  an  expression  of  the 
energies  of  my  own  soul,  it  is  divine.  Of  course, 
from  the  industry  of  our  time,  where  most  work  is 
mechanical  and  meaningless  to  him  who  performs  it, 
the  spirit  of  art  has  largely  fled.  Yet  there  still  re- 
main tasks  which  we  all  have  to  execute,  if  not  in  busi- 
ness, then  at  home,  which,  by  arousing  our  interest  and 
invention,  may  become  materials  for  the  spirit  of  art. 
We  have  at  least  our  homes,  our  pleasures,  our  relations 
with  one  another,  our  private  adventures,  where  we 


Art  and  Religion  357 

can  still  be  free  and  genial  and  masterly.  And  for  our 
work,  art  will  continue  to  be  an  ideal,  sorrowfully 
appealing. 

The  scope  of  the  spirit  of  art  may  be  extended  beyond 
the  single  task  or  act  to  embrace  the  whole  of  one's  life. 
Impulse  offers  a  plastic  material  to  which  form  may 
be  given.  The  principles  of  harmony,  balance,  evolu- 
tion, proper  subordination,  and  perfection  of  detail, 
indispensable  to  beauty  in  art,  are  conditions  of  happi- 
ness in  life.  The  form  of  a  work  of  art  and  the  form 
of  a  happy  life  are  the  same,  as  Plato  insisted.1  In 
order  to  yield  satisfaction,  the  different  parts  of  life 
must  exemplify  identity  of  motive,  continuity  and 
orderliness  in  the  fulfillment  of  purpose,  lucidity  of 
relation,  yet  diversity  for  stimulation  and  totality. 
There  must  be  a  selective  scheme  to  absorb  what  is 
congenial  and  reject  the  unfit.  This  sense  for  form 
in  life  may  lead  to  the  same  results  as  morality,  but 
the  point  of  departure  and  the  sanction  are  different. 
Morality  is  largely  based  on  conformity,  on  submission 
to  the  general  will,  and  is  rendered  effective  by  fear 
of  public  disapproval  and  supernatural  taboos ;  while 
the  aesthetic  direction  of  life  has  its  roots  in  the  love 
of  form  and  meaning,  and  its  sanction  in  personal 
happiness.  Moreover,  to  the  reflective  person,  look- 
ing before  and  after,  life  has  the  same  sort  of  reality 
as  a  story,  and  is  bound  to  be  judged  in  some 
measure  like  a  story.  The  past  and  the  future  live 
only  in  the  imagination,  and  when  we  survey  them 
there  they  may  please  us  with  their  interest,  liveliness, 
and  meaning,  much  as  a  work  of  art  would,  or  dis- 

1  See,  for  example,  The  Gorgias,  503,  504. 


358  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

please  us  with  their  vanity  and  chaos.  In  this  way 
personality  may  acquire  an  imaginative  value  funda- 
mentally aesthetic.  This  is  different  from  moral  value, 
which  has  reference  to  the  relation  of  a  life  to  social 
ideals;  it  is  more  comprehensive  than  the  religious 
judgment,  which  is  interested  only  in  saving  the  soul; 
because  it  includes  every  element  of  life,  —  sense, 
imagination,  and  achievement,  welcoming  all,  so  long 
as  they  contribute  something  to  a  significant,  moving 
whole. 

The  feeling  for  perfection  of  form  and  imaginative 
meaning  in  life  is  no  invention  of  philosophers  and 
aesthetes,  but  part  of  the  normal  reaction  to  conduct. 
Everybody  feels  that  certain  acts,  or  even  certain 
wishes,  are  to  be  rejected  by  himself,  not  because 
they  are  intrinsically  bad  or  wrong,  but  because 
they  are  inconsistent  with  his  particular  nature,  and, 
on  the  other  hand,  that  there  are  certain  interests 
that  should  be  cultivated,  not  because  they  are  uni- 
versally right  or  good,  but  because  they  are  needed 
to  give  his  life  complete  meaning.  And  again,  all 
except  the  meanest  and  most  repressed  souls  desire 
somewhat  to  shine,  if  not  in  the  world  at  large,  at 
least  among  their  friends,  and  act  with  a  view  to 
appearance  and  to  some  total  survey  of  their  lives  that 
would  consider  not  merely  its  goodness  or  usefulness, 
but  its  imaginative  emotional  appeal.  This  appeal  is 
the  strongest  on  the  death  of  a  great  man ;  this  lives 
longest  in  the  memory.  The  love  of  the  romantic 
and  adventurous  is  partly  instinctive,  but  largely 
imaginative,  for  it  has  in  view  not  merely  the  rap- 
turous pleasures  of  the  hazardous  moment,  but  the 


Art  and  Religion  359 

remembered  delights  of  recall  and  expression  to  others. 
The  love  of  glory  is  also  imaginative,  a  feeling  for 
the  dramatic  extending  even  beyond  the  grave.  The 
ambitious  man  seeks  to  make  a  story  out  of  his  life 
for  posterity  to  read  and  remember,  just  as  the  artist 
makes  one  out  of  fictitious  material.  More  might 
develop  out  of  this  love  of  form  and  drama  in  life. 
We  have  it  to  a  certain  degree  of  cultivation  in  pic- 
turesque and  refined  manners,  dress,  and  ceremonial, 
but  even  there  it  is  hampered  through  conventionality 
and  want  of  invention;  further  evolved  and  extended 
into  the  deeper  strata  of  life,  it  would  lead  to  a  more 
interesting  and  productive  existence.  Surely,  if  God 
is  an  artist  as  well  as  a  judge,  he  will  welcome  into 
heaven  not  only  those  who  have  lived  well,  but  also 
those  who  have  lived  beautifully. 

There  is  no  necessity,  finally,  why  the  constructive 
spirit  of  art  should  be  confined  to  the  personal  life 
and  should  not,  in  some  measure  at  least,  penetrate 
the  community  and  even  the  state.  By  appealing 
to  imaginative  feeling,  the  activities  of  various  in- 
dividuals and  groups,  when  coordinated  and  given  a 
purposeful  unity,  produce  an  aesthetic  effect.  The 
organization  of  a  business  or  a  university  may  easily 
come  to  have  such  a  value  for  one  who  has  helped  to 
create  it,  especially  if  the  place  where  the  communal 
spirit  operates  is  beautiful,  —  the  office,  the  campus, 
the  shop.  Seldom,  to  be  sure,  do  we  find  this  value 
in  our  busy  and  haphazard  America,  but  in  many 
quarters  the  intention  to  create  it  is  awake.  As  for 
the  state,  it  is,  of  course,  too  little  dominated  by  dis- 
interested intelligence  to  be  beautiful;  yet  Plato's 


360  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

ideal  of  statecraft  as  a  fine  art  still  rules  the  innermost 
dream  of  men. 

The  contemplative  spirit  of  art  is  perhaps  more 
important  than  the  constructive  in  its  application  to 
life.  Not  that  any  sharp  line  can  be  drawn  between 
them,  for  contemplation  must  always  attend  or  follow 
creation,  to  judge  and  enjoy;  yet  towards  that  part 
of  life  which  we  cannot  control,  our  attitude  must  be 
rather  that  of  the  spectator  than  the  creator.  We 
cannot  interfere  with  the  greater  part  of  life;  we 
can,  however,  j)bserve  it  _  and,  in  the  imagination, 
transform  it,  where  we  can  then  envisage  it  as  we 
should  a  work  of  art.  As  we  watch  it,  life  itself  may 
become  beautiful,  and  instead  of  giving  ourselves  to 
it  half-heartedly  and  with  reserve,  we  shall  accept  it 
with  something  of  the  abandon  of  passionate  love,  - 
"  In  thee  my  soul  hath  her  content  so  absolute."  To 
this  end  it  is  necessary  to  detach  life  from  our  more 
selfish  interests  and  ambitions,  from  the  habits  of 
thought,  annoying  and  preoccupying,  that  relate  to 
self  alone.  To  the  worldly  and  self-centered,  life  is 
interesting  only  so  far  as  it  refers  to  pride  or  ambition 
or  passion ;  otherwise  it  is  indifferent,  as  none  of  their 
concern.  But  to  the  religious  and  to  the  aesthetically 
minded,  there  is  no  part  of  life  that  may  not  be  of 
interest;  to  the  former,  because  they  impute  some- 
thing of  transcendent  perfection  to  it  all;  to  the 
latter,  because  they  have  set  themselves  the  inex- 
haustible task  of  its  free,  imaginative  appreciation. 
To  this  end,  it  is  also  necessary,  after  learning  to  view 
life  objectively  and  impersonally,  to  attend  to  it 
leisurely  and  responsively,  as  we  should  to  a  work 


Art  and  Religion  361 

of  art,  allowing  full  scope  to  the  disinterested  feelings 
of  curiosity,  pity,  sympathy,  and  wonder  to  create 
emotional  participation. 

Then  the  world  may  become  for  us  the  most  mag- 
nificent spectacle  of  all.  To  imaginative  feeling,  every 
landscape  is  a  potential  painting,  every  life-story  a 
romance,  history  a  drama,  every  man  or  woman  a  1 
statue  or  portrait.  Beauty  is  everywhere,  where  we 
who  are  perhaps  not  artists  but  only  art  lovers  can 
find  it;  we  cannot  embody  it  in  enduring  form  or 
throw  over  it  the  glamour  of  sensuous  loveliness,  but 
we  can  perceive  it  with  that  free  appreciation  that  is 
the  essence  of  art.  And  for  this,  of  course,  the  artists 
have  prepared  us;  it  is  they  who,  by  first  exhibiting 
life  as  beautiful  in  art,  have  shown  us  that  it  may 
be  beautiful  as  mirrored  in  the  observing  mind.  One 
region  after  another  has  been  conquered  by  them. 
The  poets  and  the  painters  created  the  beauty  of  the 
mountains,  of  windmills  and  canals,  of  frozen  wastes 
and  monotonous  prairies,  of  peasants  and  factories 
and  railway  stations  and  slums.  Themselves  the  first 
to  feel  the  value  of  these  things,  through  some  personal 
attachment  or  communion  with  them,  they  have  made 
it  universal  through  expression.  Their  works  have 
become  types  through  which  we  apperceive  and  ap- 
preciate the  world:  we  see  French  landscapes  as 
Lorrain  and  Corot  saw  them,  peasants  after  the 
fashion  of  Millet,  the  stage  after  Degas.  In  vain 
men  have  prophesied  limits  to  the  victorious  advance 
of  art.  Just  at  the  time  when,  in  the  middle  of  the  last 
century,  some  men  feared  that  science  and  industry 
had  banished  beauty  from  the  world,  the  impressionists 


362  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

and  realists  disclosed  it  in  factory  and  steamboat  and 
mine.  In  this  way  modern  art,  which  might  seem 
through  its  isolation  to  have  taken  beauty  away  from 
the  world  to  itself,  has  given  it  back  again. 

The  spirit  of  art,  no  less  than  of  religion,  can  help 
us  to  triumph  over  the  evils  of  life.  There  are  three 
ways  of  treating  evil  successfully :  the  practical  way, 
to  overcome  it  and  destroy  it;  the  religious  way,  by 
faith  to  deny  its  existence;  the  aesthetic  way,  to  re- 
build it  in  the  imagination.  The  first  is  the  way  of 
all  strong  men ;  but  its  scope  is  limited ;  for  some  of 
the  evils  of  life  are  insuperable;  against  these  our 
only  recourse  is  faith  or  the  spirit  of  art.  The  method 
of  art  consists  in  taking  towards  life  itself  the  same 
attitude  that  the  artist  takes  towards  his  materials 
when  he  makes  a  comedy  or  a  tragedy  out  of  them; 
life  itself  becomes  the  object  of  laughter  or  of  tragic 
pity  and  fear  and  admiration.  As  we  observed  in 
our  chapter  on  "The  Problem  of  Evil  in  ^Esthetics," 
laughter  is  an  essentially  aesthetic  attitude,  for  it  im- 
plies the  ability  disinterestedly  to  face  a  situation, 
although  one  which  opposes  our  standards  and  expec- 
tations, and  to  take  pleasure  in  it.  All  sorts  of  per- 
sonal feelings  may  be  mixed  with  laughter,  bitterness 
and  scorn  and  anger ;  but  the  fact  that  we  laugh  shows 
that  they  are  not  dominant ;  in  laughter  we  assert 
our  freedom  from  the  yoke  of  circumstance  and  make 
it  yield  us  pleasure  even  when  it  thwarts  us.  Laughter 
celebrates  a  twofold  victory,  first  over  ourselves,  in 
that  we  do  not  allow  our  disappointments  to  spoil  our| 
serenity,  and  second  over  the  world,  in  that,  even 
when  it  threatens  to  render  us  unhappy,  we  prevent  it. 


Art  and  Religion  363 

Fate  may  rob  us  of  everything,  but  not  of  freedom  of 
spirit  and  laughter;  oftentimes  we  must  either  laugh 
or  cry,  but  tears  bring  only  relief,  laughter  brings 
merriment  as  well. 

Even  with  the  devil  laughter  may  effect  reconcilia- 
tion. Practical  men  will  try  to  destroy  him,  but  so 
far  they  have  not  succeeded ;  men  of  faith  will  proph- 
esy his  eventual  ruin,  but  meanwhile  we  have  to 
live  in  his  company;  and  how  can  we  live  there  at 
peace  with  ourselves  unless  with  laughter  at  his  antics 
and  our  own  vain  efforts  to  restrain  them?  Surely 
the  age-long  struggle  against  him  justifies  us  in  making 
this  compromise  for  our  happiness.  We  who  in  our 
lifetime  cannot  defeat  him  can  at  least  make  him  yield 
us  this  meed  of  laughter  for  our  pains.  People  who 
think  that  laughter  at  evil  is  a  blasphemy  against  the 
good  set  too  high  a  valuation  upon  their  conventions. 
No  one  can  laugh  without  possessing  a  standard,  but 
to  laugh  is  to  recognize  that  life  is  of  more  worth  than 
any  ideal  and  happiness  better  than  any  morality. 

And  if  by  laughter  we  cannot  triumph  over  evil, 
we  may  perhaps  achieve  this  end  by  appreciating  it 
as  an  element  in  tragedy  or  pathos.  For  once  we/ 
take  a  contemplative  attitude  towards  life,  foregoing/ 
praise  and  blame,  there  is  no  spectacle  equal  to  it  fon 
tragic  pity  and  fear  and  admiration.  There  is  a 
heroism  in  life  equal  to  any  in  art,  in  which  we  may 
live  imaginatively,  and  in  so  living  forgive  the  evil 
that  is  its  necessary  condition.  Or,  when  life  is  pa- 
thetic rather  than  tragic,  suffering  and  fading  and 
weak  rather  than  strong  and  steady  and  resisting,  we 
may  win  insight  from  the  pitiable  reality  into  the 


364  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

possible  and  ideal;  the  shadow  of  evil  will  suggest  to 
us  the  light  of  the  good,  and  for  this  vision  we  shall 
bless  life  even  when  it  disappoints  our  hopes.  The 
very  precariousness  of  values,  which  is  an  inevitable 
accompaniment  of  them,  will  serve  to  intensify  their 
worth  for  us ;  we  shall  be  made  the  more  passionately 
to  love  life,  with  the  joys  that  it  offers  us,  because  we 
so  desperately  realize  its  transiency.  Our  knowledge 
of  the  inescapableness  of  death  and  failure  will  quiet 
our  laments,  leaving  us  at  least  serene  and  resigned 
where  our  struggles  and  protests  would  be  unavailing. 
It  is  by  thus  generalizing  the  point  of  view  of  art  so 
that  we  adopt  it  towards  our  own  life  that  we  secure 
the  catharsis  of  tragedy.  Instead  of  letting  sorrow 
overwhelm  us,  we  may  win  self-possession  through 
the  struggle  against  it;  instead  of  feeling  that  there 
is  nothing  left  when  the  loved  one  dies,  we  may  keep 
in  memory  a  cherished  image,  more  poignant  and 
beautiful  because  the  reality  is  gone,  and  loving  this 
we  shall  love  life  also  that  has  provided  it. 

Finally,  in  subtle  ways,  the  influence  of  art,  while 
emaining  indirect,  may  affect  practical  action  in  a 
more  concrete  fashion.  For  silently,  unobtrusively, 
when  constantly  attended  to,  a  work  of  art  will  trans- 
form the  background  of  values  out  of  which  action 
'springs.  The  beliefs  and  sentiments  expressed  will 
be  accepted  not  for  the  moment  only,  aesthetically 
and  playfully,  but  for  always  and  practically;  they 
will  become  a  part  of  our  nature.  The  effect  is  not 
merely  to  enlarge  the  scope  of  our  sympathies  by  mak- 
ing us  responsive,  as  all  art  does,  to  every  human 
aspiration,  but  rather  to  strengthen  into  resolves 


Art  and  Religion  365 

those  aspirations  that  meet  in  us  an  answering  need. 
This  influence  is  especially  potent  during  the  early 
years  of  life,  before  the  framework  of  valuations  has 
become  fixed.  What  young  man  nursed  on  Shelley's 
poetry  has  not  become  a  lover  of  freedom  and  an 
active  force  against  all  oppression?  But  even  in 
maturer  years  art  may  work  in  this  way.  One  cannot 
live  constantly  with  the  "  Hermes  "  of  Praxiteles  with- 
out something  of  its  serenity  entering  into  one's  soul  to 
purge  passion  of  violence,  or  with  Goethe's  poetry 
without  its  wisdom  making  one  wise  to  live.  The 
effect  is  not  to  cause  any  particular  act,  but  so  to 
mold  the  mind  that  every  act  performed  is  different 
because  of  this  influence. 

I  would  compare  this  influence  to  that  of  friends. 
Friends  may,  of  course,  influence  conduct  directly 
and  immediately  through  advice  and  persuasion,  but 
that  is  not  the  most  important  effect  of  their  lives. 
More  important  is  the  gradual  diffusion  of  their  atti- 
tudes and  the  enlightenment  following  their  example. 
Through  living  their  experiences  with  them,  we  come 
to  adopt  their  valuations  as  our  own ;  by  observing 
how  they  solve  their  problems,  we  get  suggestions  as 
to  how  to  solve  ours.  Art  provides  us  with  a  com- A 
panionship  of  the  imagination,  a  new  friendship.  The  ' 
sympathetic  touch  with  the  life  there  expressed  en- 
larges our  understanding  of  the  problems  and  condi- 
tions of  all  life,  and  so  leads  to  a  freer  and  wiser  direction 
of  our  own.  On  the  one  hand  new  and  adventurous 
methods  of  living  are  suggested,  and  on  the  other  hand 
the  eternal  limits  of  action  are  enforced. 

Once  more  I  would  compare  the  influence  of  art  with 


366  The  Principles  of  ^Esthetics 

that  of  religion.  The  effect  of  religion  upon  conduct 
is  partly  due  to  the  institutions  with  which  it  is  con- 
nected and  the  supernatural  sanctions  which  it  attaches 
to  the  performance  of  duty ;  but  partly  also,  and  more 
enduringly,  to  the  stories  of  the  gods.  Now  these 
stories,  even  when  believed,  have  an  existence  in  the 
imagination  precisely  comparable  to  that  of  works  of 
art,  and  their  influence  upon  sentiment  is  of  exactly 
the  same  order.  They  are  most  effective  when  beau- 
tiful, as  the  legends  of  Christ  and  Buddha  are  beauti- 
ful ;  and  they  function  by  the  sympathetic  transference 
of  attitude  from  the  story  to  the  believer.  Even  when 
no  longer  accepted  as  true  their  influence  may  persist, 
for  the  values  they  embody  lose  none  of  their  com- 
pulsion. And,  although  as  an  interpretation  of  life 
based  upon  faith  religion  is  doubtless  eternal,  its 
specific  forms  are  probably  all  fictitious ;  hence  each 
particular  religion  is  destined  to  pass  from  the  sphere 
of  faith  to  that  of  art.  The  Greek  religion  has  long 
since  gone  there,  and  there  also  a  large  part  of  our 
own  will  some  day  go  —  what  is  lost  for  faith  is  re- 
tained for  beauty. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

General  Works 

English. 

SANTAYANA,  G.    The  Sense  of  Beauty,  1897 ;  Reason  in  Art,  1906. 
MUENSTEBBERG,  H.     The  Principles  of  Art  Education,  1905 ;  The 

Eternal  Values,  Part  3,  1909. 
LEE  and  THOMPSON.     Beauty  and  Ugliness,  1911. 
CARBITT,  E.  I.     The  Theory  of  Beauty,  1914. 
KNIGHT,  WM.     The  Philosophy  of  the  Beautiful,  Part  1,  1891; 

Part  2,  1893. 

PUFFER,  ETHEL.    The  Psychology  of  Beauty,  1905. 
BIIOWN,  BALDWIN.     The  Fine  Arts,  1892. 
ROWLAND,  E.     The  Significance  of  Art,  1913. 
MARSHALL,  R.     Pain,  Pleasure,  and  .Esthetics,  1894;    .Esthetic 

Principles,  1895. 

SULLY,  J.,  and  ROBERTSON,  G.  C.     .Esthetics. 
BOSANQUET,  B.     History  of  .Esthetics,  1904 ;    Three  Lectures  on 

.Esthetics,  1914. 
GORDON,  KATE.    Esthetics,  1909. 

German. 

LIPPS,  T.    Aesthetik,  1903-1905. 
VOLKELT,  J.     System  der  Aesthetik,  1905-1914. 
DESSOIR,  M.     Aesthetik  und  Allgemeine  Kunstwissenschaft,  1906. 
COHN,  J.     Allgemeine  Aesthetik,  1901. 
MEUMANN,    E.     Aesthetik   der    Gegenwart,    1912;      System   der 

Aesthetik,  1914. 
UTITZ,  E.     Grundlegung  der  Allgemeinen  Kunstwissenschaft,  Bd.  1, 

1914. 

MUELLER-FRIENFELS,  R.     Psychologic  der  Kunst,  1912. 
WITASEK,  S.     Grundzuege  der  Allgemeinen  Aesthetik,  1904. 
GROOS,  K.     Der  Aesthetische  Genuss,  1902. 

367 


368  Bibliography 

LANGE,  K.    Das  Wesen  der  Kunst,  1901. 

FIEDLER,  C.     Der  Ursprung  der  Kuenstlerischen  Thaetigkeit,  1901. 
KANT,  I.     Kritik  der  Urteilskraft,  1790;    English  translation  by 
J.  H.  Bernard,  1892. 

French. 

TAINE,  H.     The  Philosophy  of  Art,  English  translation,  1867. 
SULLY-PRUDHOMME,  R.  F.  A.     L'Expression  dans  les  beaux  arts, 

1883. 
GUYAU,  J.  M.     Les  problemes  de  1'estetique  contemporaine,  1884; 

L'Art  au  point  de  vue  sociologique,  1889. 
BRAY,  L.     Du  Beau,  1902. 
SEAILLES,  G.     Essai  sur  le  genie  en  1'art,  1897. 
SOURIAU,  P.     La  suggestion  en  1'art,  1909. 
LALO,  CH.     Les  Sentiments   esthetiques,   1910;      Introduction   a 

1'estetique,  1913. 

DUSSAUZE,  H.     Les  Regies  estetiques  et  les  lois  du  sentiment,  1911. 
FONTAINE,  A.     Essai  sur  le  principe  et  les  lois  de  la  critique  d'art, 

1909. 

Italian. 

CROCE,  B.     Estetica,  1902;     English  translation,  1909;     French 
translation,  1904 ;     German  translation,  1905 ;     Breviario  di 
estetica,  1913. 
PILO,  M.    Estetica. 
PORENA,  M.     Che  cos'  e  il  bello  ?     1905. 

Experimental  Esthetics 

FECHNER,  G.  T.     Vorschule  der  Aesthetik,  1876. 

KUELPE,  0.  Der  gegenwaertige  Stand  der  experimentellen  Aesthe- 
tik, in  Bericht  ueber  den  2ten  Kongress  fuer  experimentelle 
Psychologic,  1907. 

STRATTON,  G.  M.     Psychology  and  Culture,  1903. 

VALENTINE,  C.  W.     Experimental  Psychology  of  Beauty. 

MYERS,  C.  S.     Introduction  to  Experimental  Psychology,  1911. 

WUNDT,  WM.     Physiological  Psychology. 

LALO,  CH.     L'Estetique  experimentale  contemporaine,  1908. 


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Works  on  the  Origins  of  Art 

HIRN,  Y.    The  Origins  of  Art,  1900. 

GROSSE,  E.     The  Beginnings  of  Art,  English  translation,  1897. 
WALLASCHEK,  R.     Primitive  Music,  1903. 
BUECHER,  K.     Arbeit  und  Rhythmus,  1899. 
GUMMEHE,  F.  B.     The  Beginnings  of  Poetry,  1901. 
GROOS,  K.     The  Play  of  Man,  1901. 
FRAZER,  J.  G.     The  Golden  Bough,  1907-1915. 
WUNDT,  WM.     Volkerpsychologie,  1911;     Elements  of  Folk  Psy- 
chology, 1916. 
SPEARING,  H.  G.     The  Childhood  of  Art,  1913. 

Additional  References  for  Special  Subjects 

Chapter  Six.  —  The  Tragic. 

ARISTOTLE.     Poetics. 

CORNEILLE,  P.     Disco urs  de  la  tragedie,  1660. 

LESSING,  G.  E.     Hamburgische  Dramaturgic,  1767. 

SCHOPENHAUER.  The  World  as  Will  and  Idea;  English  transla- 
tion, Vol.  1,  Bk.  3 ;  Vol.  3,  Ch.  27. 

HEGEL,  G.  W.  F.  Vorlesungen  ueber  die  Aesthetik,  3ter  Abschnitt, 
3tes  Kapitel. 

HEBBEL,  F.     Ein  Wort  ueber  das  Drama,  1843. 

LIPPS,  T.     Der  Streit  ueber  die  Tragoedie,  1891. 

VOLKELT,  J.  Aesthetik  des  Tragischen,  1906;  System  der  Aes- 
thetik, Bd.  2,  1910. 

BRADLEY,  A.  C.     Oxford  Lectures  on  Poetry,  1909. 

BUTCHER,  S.  H.     Aristotle's  Theory  of  Poetry  and  Fine  Art,  1898. 

NIETZSCHE,  FR.     Die  Geburt  der  Tragoedie,  1870. 

Chapter  Six.  —  The  Comic. 

LIPPS,  T.     Komik  und  Humor,  1898. 

BERGSON,  H.     Laughter,  English  translation,  1913. 

FREUD,  S.     Wit,  and  Its  Relation  to  the  Unconscious,  English 

translation,  1916. 
MARTIN,  L.  J.     Experimental  Prospecting  in  the  Fields  of  the 

Comic,  American  Journal  of  Psychology,  Vol.  16,  1905. 


370  Bibliography 

SCHOPENHAUER,  A.  The  World  as  Will  and  Idea,  English  trans- 
lation, Vol.  2,  Ch.  8. 

VOLKELT,  J.     System  der  Aesthetik,  Bd.  2,  1900. 

SULLY,  J.     Essay  on  Laughter,  1902. 

SPENCER,  H.  Physiology  of  Laughter,  in  Essays,  Scientific,  Politi- 
cal and  Speculative. 

SIDIS,  B.     Psychology  of  Laughter,  1913. 

MEREDITH,  GEORGE.     An  Essay  on  Comedy,  1897. 

Chapter  Seven.  —  The  Standard  of  Taste. 

TAINE,  H.     The  Ideal  in  Art,  1867. 

LEMAITRE,  J.     Les  Contemporains. 

FRANCE,  A.     La  Vie  litteraire. 

BRUNETIERE,  FERD.     Questions  de  critique,  1889. 

BABBITT,  IRVING.     The  New  Laocoon,  1910. 

GATES,  L.  E.     Impressionism  and  Appreciation,  in  The  Atlantic 

Monthly,  July,  1900. 

BALFOUR,  A.  J.     Criticism  and  Beauty,  1910. 
PATER,  WALTER.     The  Renaissance,  1873. 
SYMONDS,  J.  A.     Essays,  Speculative  and  Suggestive,  1890. 
CAINE,  T.  HALL.     Cobwebs  of  Criticism,  1883. 
HENNEQUIN,  E.     La  Critique  scientifique,  1888. 
SPINGARN,  J.  E.     Creative  Criticism,  1917. 

-Chapter  Eight.  —  Music. 

RIEMANN,  H.     Elemente  der  musikalischen  Aesthetik,  1900. 

HANSLICK,  E.     Vom  Musikalisch-Schoenen,  llth  ed.,  1910. 

GEHRING,  A.     The  Basis  of  Musical  Pleasure,  1910. 

COMBARIEU,  J.     Music  :   Its  Laws  and  Evolution,  1910. 

GURNEY,  E.     The  Power  of  Sound,  1880. 

BUSONI,  F.     Sketch  of  a  New  Esthetic  of  Music,  1911. 

LALO,  C.     Esquisse  d'une  estetique  musicale  scientifique,  1908. 

AMBROS,  W.  A.     Die  Grenzen  der  Musik  und  Poesie,  1872. 

WAGNER,  R.     Das  Kunstwerk  der  Zukunft ;  Oper  und  Drama. 

STUMPF,  C.     Tonpsychologie,  1883,  1890,  and  articles  in  Zeitsckrift 

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Chapter  Nine.  —  Poetry. 
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LIDDELL,  MARK  H.     An  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  Poetry,  1902. 
WERNER,  R.  M.     Lyrik  und  Lyriker,  1890. 
LOWELL,  AMY.     Tendencies  in  Modern  American  Poetry,  1917. 
GUMMERE,  F.  B.    A  Handbook  of  Poetics,  1895. 
ROETTEKEN.     Poetik,  1911. 
BURKE,  EDMUND.     A  Philosophical  Enquiry  into  Our  Ideas  of  the 

Sublime  and  Beautiful,  Part  4,  1756. 
MACKAIL,  J.  W.     Lectures  on  Poetry,  1911. 
POE,  E.  A.    The  Philosophy  of  Composition ;  The  Poetic  Principle. 


372  Bibliography 

OMOND,  T.  S.     A  Study  of  Meter,  1903. 
VERRIER,  P.     Metrique  anglaise,  1909. 
DILTHEY,  W.     Das  Erlebnis  und  Die  Dichtung,  1907. 
STETSON,  R.  H.     Rhythm  and  Rhyme,  in  Harvard  Psychological 
Studies,  Vol.  1. 

Chapter  Ten.  —  Prose  Literature. 

SCHOPENHAUER,  A.    The  Art  of  Literature. 

GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER.     Correspondence,  passim. 

GREEN,  T.  H.     The  Value  and  Influence  of  Works  of  Fiction,  1862. 

LEWES,  G.  H.     Principles  of  Success  in  Literature,  1892. 

ARNOLD,  M.     Essays  hi  Criticism,  1869. 

ZOLA,  E.     The  Experimental  Novel  and  Other  Essays,  translated 

by  B.  M.  Sherman,  1893. 

BESANT,  W.,  and  JAMES,  H.     The  Art  of  Fiction,  1885. 
PATER,  W.     Appreciations,  with  an  Essay  on  Style,  1889. 
STEVENSON,  R.  L.     On  Style  in  Literature,  in  Contemporary  Review, 

47 : 548. 

BOURGET,  P.     Etudes  et  Portraits,  1911. 
FLAUBERT,  G.     Correspondance,  published  1887. 
ELSTER,  E.     Prinzipien  der  Literaturwissenschaft,  1897,  1911. 
FREITAG,  G.     Technique  of  the  Drama,  English  translation,  1895. 
MATTHEWS,  J.  B.     A  Study  of  the  Drama,  1910. 
JONES,  H.  A.     The  Foundations  of  a  National  Drama,  1913. 
WOODBRIDGE,  E.     The  Drama  :  Its  Laws  and  Its  Technique,  1898. 
DE  MAUPASSANT,  GUY.     Le  Roman,  in  Pierre  et  Jean. 

For  additional  references  on  Poetry  and  Prose,  consult  An  In- 
troduction to  the  Methods  and  Materials  of  Literary  Criticism,  by  C. 
M.  Gayley  and  F.  N.  Scott,  1899. 

Chapter  Eleven.  —  Painting. 

MEIER-GRAEFE,  J.     Modern  Art,  English  translation,  1908. 
Ross,  DENMON.     A  Theory  of  Pure  Design,  1907 ;  On  Drawing  and 

Painting,  1912. 

BERENSON,  B.     Central  Italian  Painters  of  the  Renaissance. 
POORE,  H.  R.     Pictorial  Composition,  1903. 
VAN  DYKE,  J.  C.    Art  for  Art's  Sake,  1895. 


Bibliography  373 

UTITZ,  E.     Grundzuege  der  Aesthetischen  Farbenlehre,  1908. 

WAETZOLDT,  WM.     Die  Kunst  des  Portraets,  1908. 

WEIGHT,  WM.  H.     Modern  Painting,  1915. 

LIPPS,  T.    Aesthetik,  Bd.  1,  5ter  Abschnitt,  Bd.  2,  7tes  Kapitel. 

GOETHE.     Farbenlehre. 

SOURIAU,  P.     L'Estetique  du  mouvement,  1889. 

STRATTON,  G.  M.  Eye  Movement,  and  the  ^Esthetics  of  Visual 
Form,  in  Philosophische  Studien,  XX. 

COHN,  J.  Experimentelle  Untersuchungen  ueber  die  Gefuehls- 
betonung  der  Farben,  in  Philosophische  Studien,  10  :  522. 

BAKER  and  CHOWN.  Experiments  on  Color,  in  the  University  of 
Toronto  Studies. 

LEE  and  THOMPSON.  Beauty  and  Ugliness,  in  Contemporary  Re- 
view, 1897. 

CHEVREUL,  M.  E.  The  Principles  of  Harmony  and  Contrast  of 
Colors,  1855. 

Chapter  Twelve.  —  Sculpture. 

HILDEBRAND,  A.     The  Problem  of  Form  in  Painting  and  Sculpture, 

English  translation,  1907. 
RODIN,  A.     Art,  English  translation,  1912. 
HERDER,  J.  G.     Plastik,  1778. 
LIPPS,  T.     Aesthetik,  Bd.  2,  5tes  u.  6tes  Kapitel. 
LESSING.     Laocob'n,  1766. 
CORNELIUS,  H.     Elementargesetze  der  bildenden  Kunst,  1908. 

Chapter  Thirteen.  —  Architecture. 

LIPPS,  T.     Raumaesthetik,  1897;   Aesthetik,  Bd.  1,  1903. 

SCOTT,  G.     The  Architecture  of  Humanism,  1914. 

ROBINSON,  J.  B.     Architectural  Composition,  1908. 

VAN  PELT,  J.  V.    Essentials  of  Composition,  1913. 

GUADET,  J.     Elements  et  theorie  de  1'architecture,  1909. 

ViOLLET-LE-Duc,  E.  E.     Entretiens  sur  1'architecture,  1863-72. 

RUSKIN,  J.     Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture,  1857. 

FRANKL,  P.     Die  Entwicklungsphasen  der  neueren  Baukunst,  1914. 

WORRINGER,  W.     Formprobleme  der  Gothik,  1912. 

WOELFFLIN,  H.     Renaissance  und  Barock,  1888. 


374  Bibliography 

Chapter  Fourteen.  —  Art  and  Morality. 

PLATO.     Republic,  Ion,  Phaedrus,  Symposium,  Gorgias. 

TOLSTOY,  L.     What  is  Art?  English  translation,  1899. 

SCHILLER,  F.  Letters  on  the  ^Esthetic  Education  of  Man,  1 793-1 795. 

MORRIS,  WM.     Hopes  and  Fears  for  Art,  1882. 

WILDE,  O.,  MORRIS,  WM.,  and  OWEN,  W.  C.    The  Soul  of  Man, 

The  Socialist  Ideal-Art,  and  The  Coming  Solidarity. 
RUSKIN,  J.     Lectures  on  Art,  1900. 

SYMONDS,  J.  A.     Essays,  Speculative  and  Suggestive,  1890. 
PAULHAN,  FR.     Le  Mensonge  de  1'Art,  1907. 
WHISTLER,  J.  McN.     Ten  o'Clock,  1888. 
GUYAU,  J.  M.     L'Art  au  point  de  vue  sociologique,  1889. 
CASSAGNE,  A.    La  theorie  de  1'art  pour  1'art  en  France,  1906. 

Chapter  Fifteen.  —  Art  and  Religion. 
LANG,  A.     Myth,  Ritual,  and  Religion,  1913. 
DELLA  SETA,  A.     Religion  and  Art,  1914. 
HARRISON,  J.     Ancient  Art  and  Ritual,  1913. 
MURRAY,  G.     Four  Stages  of  Greek  Religion,  1912. 
REINACH,  S.     Orpheus,  1909. 
SANTAYANA,  G.     Poetry  and  Religion,  1900. 
FRAZER,  J.  G.     The  Golden  Bough. 
HEGEL,  G.  W.  F.     Introduction  to  the  Philosophy  of  Fine  Art, 

translated  by  Bosanquet,  1886. 
MUENSTERBERG,  H.     Philosophie  der  Werte,  1908. 
WUNDT,  WM.     Volkerpsychologie,  1911. 
SANTAYANA,  G.     Three  Philosophical  Poets,  1910. 


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